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I 


Chautauqua  IReafciuq  Circle  Xiterature 


FRENCH  TRAITS 


AN  ESSA  Y IN  COMPARA  TIVE  CRITICISM 


BY 

W.  C.  BROWNELL 


MEADVILLE  PENNA 
FLOOD  AND  VINCENT 
€bt  (^frautauqua^enturp 

NEW, YORK  : CINCINNATI  : CHICAGO  : 

150  Fifth  Avenue.  222  W.  Fourth  St.  57  Washington  St. 

1896 


Copyright,  1888,  1889,  1895,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


The  required  books  of  the  O.  X.  .S'.  C.  are  recommended  by  a Council  of  Six. 
It  musty  however , be  understood  that  recomniendation  does  not  involve  an 
approval  by  the  Council , or  by  any  member  of  it , of  every  principle  or 
doctrine  contained  in  the  book  recoimnended. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  & Co.,  Astor  Place,  New  York 


TO  RICHARD  WHITEING 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  The  Social  Instinct, i 

II.  Morality, 32 

III.  Intelligence, 65 

IV.  Sense  and  Sentiment, 97 

V.  Manners, 127 

VI.  Women, 156 

VII.  The  Art  Instinct, 189 

VIII.  The  Provincial  Spirit, 216 

IX.  Democracy, 241 

X.  New  York  after  Paris, 289 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  SOCIAL  INSTINCT 

The  apparent  contrast  between  modern  Frenchmen  and 
the  crusaders,  between  the  “ cafe-haunters  ” and  the  cathe- 
dral-builders, stimulates  speculation  as  to  whether  the 
present  interest  of  France  is  commensurate  with  her  his- 
toric importance.  The  noblest  monuments  in  the  world 
attest  the  part  she  once  played  in  the  drama  of  civiliza- 
tion. Were  Rheims  and  Amiens,  Bourges  and  Beauvais, 
the  embodied  aspiration  of  the  race  whose  activities  one 
observes  along  the  Paris  boulevards  to-day?  Are  there 
any  signs  in  the  actual  Normandy  of  the  spirit  which  dot- 
ted the  North  coast  with  the  stone  temples  beside  which 
their  differentiation  across  the  Channel  seems  often  flimsy 
and  superficial?  Or,  at  the  other  end  of  France,  as  one 
descends  the  magnificent  thoroughfare  which  consoles  the 
Marseillais  for  the  greater  general  splendor  of  Paris,  does 
any  lingering  reminiscence  reach  one  of  the  instinct  which 
covered  the  Midi  with  the  massive  monuments  of  Proven- 
gal  Romanesque  ? As  one  observes  the  audience  which 
listens  to  Guignol,  it  seems  fabulous  that  the  Frank  ever 
crossed  the  Rhine.  As  one  notes  the  gayety,  the  bon- 
homie, the  bright  graciousness  of  a Parisian  or  provincial 
crowd,  the  Merovingian  epoch  seems  a myth.  Is  there 
any  traceable  relationship  between  St.  Remy  at  Rheims 
and  St.  Augustin  at  Paris,  between  St.  Jean  at  Lyons  and 
the  Nouvel  Opera,  between  the  Sainte  Chapelle  and  the 


2 


French  Traits 


Pantheon?  The  difference  is  as  vast  as  that  between 
gloom  and  gayety,  between  the  grandiose  and  the  familiar, 
the  mystic  and  the  rational.  From  the  Palace  of  the 
Popes  at  Avignon  to  the  Marseilles  Cannebiere,  from  the 
Chartres  sculpture  to  M.  Falguiere,  from  Plessis-les-Tours 
to  the  Tuileries,  is  a long  way.  The  contrast  seems  not 
in  epoch,  but  in  character.  In  no  other  country  is  it 
marked  in  anything  like  the  same  degree.  In  England  the 
same  character  is  traceable  in  the  London  Law  Courts  and 
the  ruins  of  Kenilworth;  Oxford  Street  and  Piccadilly  but 
deepen  the  impression  of  Chester  and  Warwick;  there  is 
a subtle  sympathy  between  Westminster  and  St.  Paul’s. 
One  is  sure  that  the  ancestors  of  the  shopmen  in  the  Bur- 
lington Arcade  and  of  the  owners  of  the  West  End  palaces 
fought  side  by  side  at  Crecy  and  Poictiers,  where  they 
occupied  pretty  much  the  same  reciprocal  relations  and 
entertained,  mutatis  mutandis , pretty  much  the  same  no- 
tions of  life,  art,  and  foreigners.  In  Germany  it  is  not 
very  different.  The  cavalrymen  of  1870-71,  who  sabred 
the  damask  and  stole  the  clocks  of  the  French  chateaux, 
were  lineal  descendants  of  the  lanzknechts  of  the  Rhine. 
Just  as,  no  doubt,  German  “probity,”  directness,  and 
simplicity  remain  what  they  were  in  the  time  of  Luther — 
not  to  mention  that  of  Arminius,  whom  even  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  Professor  Mommsen  finds  it  difficult  to  refer 
to  without  emotion.  Cologne  Cathedral  was  finished 
within  the  decade,  after  the  original  designs.  Bavaria 
goes  wild  to-day  over  the  stories  of  the  meister-singers. 
Even  Dresden  figurines  and  Saxon  baroque  in  general  are 
gothic  in  the  last  analysis — quite  without  the  grace  born 
of  the  Renaissance  passion  for  the  beautiful,  and  still  as 
clumsy  as  perfected  knowledge  will  permit.  The  succes- 
sion to  Winckelmann  is  certainly  as  little  frivolous  as 


The  Social  Instinct 


3 


Burgkmair  and  Schongauer,  and  German  criticism  is  still 
metaphysical  and  scholastic.  Italy,  from  the  time  of  the 
Pisans  down  to  the  decline  of  the  high  Renaissance,  and 
from  the  return  of  the  popes  to  the  French  Revolution, 
visibly  illustrates  a natural  evolution.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  Spain.  And  since  the  Revolution,  whatever  is  dis- 
tinctly modern  in  Italian  or  Spanish  character  and  culture, 
any  note  of  discordant  modification,  is  to  be  attributed 
in  no  small  degree  to  the  French  occupation.  Only  in 
France  does  there  seem  to  be  a break. 

The  times  change,  and  the  most  acutely  alive  change 
most  in  them.  Since  the  days  of  Louis  le  Gros,  when  the 
national  unity  began,  France  has  most  conspicuously  of 
all  nations  changed  with  the  epoch;  in  those  successive 
readjustments  which  we  call  progress  she  has  almost  inva- 
riably been  in  the  lead.  She  was  the  star  of  the  ages  of 
faith  as  she  is  the  light  of  the  age  of  fellowship.  The  ^ 
contrast  between  her  actual  self  and  her  monuments  is, 
therefore,  most  striking;  but  at  the  same  time  it  is  super- 
ficial only  and  perfectly  explicable.  And  its  explanation 
gives  the  key  to  French  character;  for  there  is  one  in- 
stinct of  human  nature,  one  aspiration  of  the  mind,  which 
France  has  incarnated  with  unbroken  continuity  from  the 
first — since  there  was  a France  at  all  France  has  embodied 
the  social  instincl  It  was  this  instinct  which  finally  tri- 
umphed over  the  barbaric  Frankish  personality;  which  dur- 
ing the  panic  and  individualism  of  the  Middle  Ages  took 
refuge  in  the  only  haven  sympathetically  disposed  to  har- 
bor it  and  produced  the  finest  monuments  of  Europe  by 
the  force  of  spiritual  solidarity;  which,  so  soon  as  the 
time  was  ripe,  extended  itself  temporally  and  created  a 
civil  organism  that  rescued  the  human  spirit  from  servi- 
tude, and  which,  finally,  in  the  great  transformation  of  the 


4 


French  Traits 


Revolution,  obtained  the  noblest  victory  over  the  forces 
of  anarchy  and  unreason  that  history  records.  Thus  in 
the  days  when  the  mediaeval  spirit  of  authority,  of  concen- 
tration, of  asceticism,  of  individualism  was  almost  all- 
powerful  in  Europe,  the  French  social  instinct  triumphed  in 
the  only  sphere  in  which  exalted  effort  was  productive;  and 
now  that  this  instinct  has  been  brought  into  harmony  with 
the  Time-Spirit,  now  that  solidarity  is  not  only  secularized 
but  popularized,  France  illustrates  its  new  phases  as  per- 
fectly as  she  did  the  old.  There  has  really  been  no  break 
in  her  historic  continuity.  The  cathedrals  are  not  feudal. 
They  were  the  product  of  a spirit  partly  ecclesiastical, 
partly  secular,  but  always  social — the  true  Gallo-Roman 
spirit  which,  great  as  was  the  perfection  attained  by  Ger- 
man feudalism  in  France,  constantly  struggled  against 
and  finally  conquered  its  foreign  Frankish  foe.  The  ca- 
thedrals, in  a word,  are  merely  the  bridge  by  which  France 
clears  the  Middle  Age.  They  are  grandiose  links  in  the 
chain  which  unites  the  Revolution  to  the  twelfth  century 
communal  movement  for  equality.  They  mark  a phase  of 
the  long  struggle  of  solidarity  with  anarchic  forces,  as  do 
the  anti-ecclesiastical  movement  of  Philippe-le-Bel,  the 
national  condensation  of  Louis  XI.,  the  Renaissance  rever- 
sion to  classic  social  as  well  as  artistic  ideals,  and  finally 
the  burial  at  the  Revolution  of  moral  and  material  Byzan- 
tinism. 

There  is  accordingly  even  a closer  spiritual  identity  be- 
tween the  Nouvel  Opera  and  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  than 
there  is,  for  example,  between  the  English  Cathedral  and 
its  perfunctory  reproduction  in  the  British  Houses  of  Par- 
liament— the  identity  of  instinct  differing  only  in  phase. 
And  this  instinct  is,  as  I said,  the  key  to  French  character 
and  the  most  conspicuous  trait  whereby  French  character 


The  Social  Instinct 


5 


differs  from  our  own.  French  history  is  the  history  of  this 
instinct.  The  fusion  of  Gallic  characteristics  with  Roman 
institutions  apparently  developed  a disposition  of  Athenian 
interdependence  and  solidarity,  all  of  whose  accomplish- 
ments were  to  be  organically  wrought,  and  whose  failures 
were  to  come  from  the  subordination  of  the  individual 
member  involved  in  the  supremacy  of  the  general  struct- 
ure. The  Catholic  Church  came  next  and  contributed  an 
influence  to  the  moulding  of  modern  France  which  it  is 
impossible  not  to  recognize  on  every  hand. 

No  one  can  pass  from  a Protestant  to  a Catholic  coun- 
try without  being  struck  by  the  numerous  characteristic 
differences  which  force  themselves  upon  the  sense  and  the 
mind.  The  two  shores  of  the  English  Channel,  of  Lake 
Geneva,  of  the  Hollandsch  Diep,  the  two  sides  of  the 
Vosges — wherever  the  two  systems  come  into  contact  the 
contrast  is  marked.  To  a Protestant  entering  France 
the  influence  of  Catholicism  is  especially  striking,  because 
in  France,  owing  to  French  clearness  and  method,  what 
elsewhere  are  only  Latin  tendencies  become  perfectly  de- 
veloped traits.  It  is  indefinite  at  first,  but  very  sensible 
nevertheless.  Long  familiarity  deepens  the  impression. 
The  absence  of  the  individual  spirit,  the  absence  of  the 
sense  of  personal  responsibility,  the  social  interdepen- 
dence of  people,  the  respect  for  public  opinion,  the  con- 
sequent consideration  for  others,  the  free  play  of  mind 
compatible  only  with  a certain  carelessness  as  to  deduc- 
tions, and  a confidence  that  society  in  general  will  see 
to  it  that  the  world  roll  on  even  if  one’s  own  logic  be 
imperfect — a dozen  traits  characteristic  and  cardinal  one 
associates  at  once  with  the  influence  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  The  great  work  of  the  Reformation  was  to 
quicken  the  sense  of  personal  responsibility  by  awakening 


6 


French  Traits 


the  conscience.  The  predominant  influence  of  the  Catho- 
lic Church  has  been  to  enforce  the  sense  of  social  inter- 
dependence among  men,  to  destroy  individualism  by  organ- 
izing and  systematizing,  and  then  itself  assuming  entire 
charge  of  the  domain  of  the  conscience.  The  conscience 
is,  of  course,  the  most  important  of  the  springs  of  human 
action.  In  proportion  as  the  individual  charges  himself 
with  soliciting  and  following  its  oracles  his  character  is 
fortified  and  concentrated,  his  individuality  intensified. 
In  proportion  as  he  resigns  this  charge  into  other  hands, 
he  places  the  true  centre  of  his  moral  nature  outside  him- 
self, his  individuality  becomes  less  marked,  and  his  rela- 
tions to  others  more  sensible,  more  important.  Is  he  not, 
indeed,  vitally  connected  with  something  external  which 
charges  itself  with  the  direction  of  the  most  powerful 
moral  agent  of  his  nature,  and  are  not  all  his  fellows  thus 
connected  also?  The  bond  of  union  between  men  is  thus 
infinitely  stronger  in  Catholic  communities  than  in  Prot- 
estant, and  in  this  way  directly  comes  about,  by  gentle 
gradations  of  logical  consistency,  that  considerateness, 
that  deference,  that  sense  of  dependence  upon  others,  that 
feeling  that  one’s  true  centre  is  outside  of  one  and  in  a 
safer  place,  so  to  speak,  the  respect  for  public  opinion, 
the  harmony  with  one’s  time  and  environment — all  the 
fruits  in  fine  of  the  social  instinct  re-enforced  by  religious 
system. 

This  is  the  direct,  sensible  influence  of  Catholicism,  as 
on  the  other  hand  the  direct,  sensible  influence  of  Protes- 
tantism has  been  to  isolate  and  to  individualize.  But  the 
indirect  influence  of  each  system  for  being  less  sensible  is 
not  the  less  real  or  important,  and  the  indirect  influence 
of  Catholicism  has  tended  to  social  expansion  as  potently 
as  its  direct  influence  to  social  concert.  Renunciation 


The  Social  Instinct 


7 


and  asceticism,  ecstasy  and  elevation,  the  mediaeval  vir- 
tues, in  fact,  are  often  called  especially  Catholic  virtues. 
They  are,  indeed,  eminently  virtues  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  but  they  have  never  been  virtues  of  a Catholic 
society.  Renunciation  shines  out  beautifully  and  bounti- 
fully from  the  pages  of  the  Legends  of  the  Saints.  His- 
tory is  full  of  instances  of  the  divine  self-forgetting  of 
monks  and  nuns.  Even  Catholic  fanaticism  has  always 
been  marked  by  it.  Ignatius  had  as  much  of  it  in  his  way 
as  St.  Theresa.  But  in  Catholic  societies  themselves,  the 
Catholic  Church  in  this  regard  has  always  strictly  sepa- 
rated itself  from  the  world.  It  has  been  in  them,  but  not 
of  them.  It  has,  so  to  speak,  organized  its  renunciation, 
and  its  organized  renunciation  has  sold  indulgences  to 
society  in  general.  The  result  has  been,  of  course,  that 
society  in  general — that  is  to  say,  everyone  with  no  clear 
vocation  for  thorough-going  renunciation — improves  its 
opportunity  and  uses  its  indulgences  freely.  That  in 
France  it  never  did,  and  certainly  does  not  now,  use  these 
to  their  utmost  limit  is  due  to  the  native  French  talent  for 
sobriety,  but  it  is  evident  that  the  instinct  for  social  ex- 
pansion has  been  fortified  by  Catholicism,  as  it  has  been 
repressed  by  Protestantism,  in  the  same  way  that  one  sys- 
tem has  quickened  and  the  other  lessened  the  sense  of 
mutual  interdependence  among  men.  Just  as,  in  contrast 
to  the  separatism  of  Protestantism,  Catholicism  has  tended 
to  unify  and  nationalize,  to  render  organic  the  structure 
of  society,  so  it  has  tended  to  develop  all  those  sides  of 
man’s  nature  which  relate  him  to  the  external  world,  and 
we  have  in  France,  as  a result  in  great  part  of  Catholic 
influences,  not  only  a people  intensely  organic  and  soli- 
daire , but  a people  possessed  of  the  epicurean  rather  than 
the  ascetic  ideal  in  morals,  its  unmoral  nature  harmoni- 


8 


French  Traits 


ously  evolved  without  restraint  from  a higher  spiritual 
law,  its  intelligence  so  highly  cultivated  as  sometimes  to 
supplant  the  soul  in  the  sphere  of  sentiment,  and  its  social 
and  mutual  activities  carried  to  an  extent  and  refined  in  a 
degree  of  which  we  have  ordinarily  a very  inadequate  idea. 

The  preponderance  thus  of  unifying  over  controversial 
and  separatist  forces  has  rendered  it  the  most  homogene- 
ous in  the  world,  and,  accordingly,  if  it  be  ever  excusable 
to  speak  of  a people  in  the  mass,  it  is  excusable  in  the  case 
of  the  French.  What  one  notes  in  the  individual  is  more 
than  anywhere  else  apt  to  be  a national  trait.  There  is, 
of  course,  differentiation  enough,  but  it  begins  further 
along  than  with  us,  and  is  structural  rather  than  fortui- 
tous. They  vary  by  types  rather  than  by  units.  The 
class  only  is  specialized.  Their  homogeneousness  is  not 
uniformity,  but  it  is  divided  rather  in  the  details  than  in 
the  grand  construction.  The  Parisians  so  bore  each  other 
often  by  force  of  mutual  sympathies  and  identical  ideas, 
that  ennui  itself  has  probably  had  a large  share  in  the 
variety  of  their  political  experimentation  and  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  their  elaborate  epicureanism.  They  are  infinitely 
civilized.  Individuals  are  of  less  import  than  the  relations 
between  them  ; hence  manners  and  art.  Character  counts 
less  than  capacity  ; hence  the  worship  of  the  intelligence. 
They  have  little  or  none  of  our  introspectiveness.  They 
understand  themselves  thoroughly,  but  by  instinct,  and 
not  as  the  result  of  examination.  They  are  far  more  inter- 
ested in  you  than  in  themselves,  and  contemplate  you  much 
more  closely.  This  indeed  they  do  very  narrowly,  and  an 
American  who  is  himself  enough  addicted  to  “ taking 
notes”  to  remark  the  practice  under  its  skilful  veil  of  in- 
terest and  civility  is  apt  to  find  it  irksome.  But  even  in 
your  personality  their  interest  is  never  pushed  to  !:he  ex- 


The  Social  Instinct 


9 


tent  of  considering  such  of  its  complexities  as  arise  from 
counter-currents  of  mind  and  feeling  and  will — such  as  a 
writer  like  George  Eliot,  for  instance,  or  Hawthorne,  or 
Thomas  Hardy,  is  so  greatly  attracted  by.  They  seem 
always  to  fancy  you  a “plain  case,”  and  only  solicitous 
to  learn  what  label  to  take  from  their  assortment  (an  as- 
sortment, by  the  way,  far  more  comprehensive  than  any 
other  people’s)  with  which  to  ticket  you.  If  your  com- 
plexity is  the  chief  thing  about  you,  they  ticket  you  “ fin  ” 
(for  which  our  word  is  “ subtle  ”),  and  so  pigeon-hole  you 
without  further  examination.  It  is  humiliating  to  the 
American  sense  to  note  how  often  this  is  really  all  that  the 
case  calls  for;  the  suggestion  is  irresistible  that  much  of 
our  personal  “hair-splitting”  is  as  nebulously  unprofita- 
ble as  the  refinements  of  Teutonic  metaphysics.  With  the 
French,  at  all  events,  the  process  of  working  out  any 
social  equation  is  always  marked  by  the  use  of  the  per- 
sonal factor  as  a known  term.  “X”  is  never  you,  but 
your  capacities,  your  manifestations,  what  you,  with  your 
Anglo-Saxon  self-concentration,  describe  as  your  mere 
“ phenomena.  ” 

Idiosyncrasy,  in  a word,  has  little  interest  for  them. 
Until  it  has  been  embalmed  in  legend  it  is  rather  resented 
than  tolerated,  even  in  its  grandiose  manifestations.  There 
is  little  hero-worship  that  is  either  blind  or  vague.  There 
is  absolutely  no  French  sympathy  with  the  notion  that 
heroes  are  made  of  essentially  different  stuff  from  the  rest 
of  mankind.  Great  men  are,  if  “nobler  brothers,”  most 
of  all  “one  in  blood;  ” and  it  is  by  sufferance  only  that 
they  are  permitted  to  “ lord  it  o’er  ” their  fellows,  in  Ster- 
ling’s phrase,  by  either  “ looks  of  beauty  ” or  “ words  of 
good.”  There  is  the  Hugo,  the  Millet,  as  there  was  the 
Napoleonic  le'gende ; but  their  inspiration  is  mainly  deco- 


IO 


French  Traits 


rous  and  conformed  to  the  prevalent  regard  for  the  fitness 
of  things  rather  than  emotionally  sincere.  “ Cher  maitre  ” 
is  a title  borne  by  scores.  M.  Dumas  fils  is  a “ cher 
maitre.”  And  the  popularity  of  this  attitude  is  ascribable 
to  the  vanity  which  seeks  association  or  identification  with 
celebrity,  not  at  all  to  the  Germanic  quality  of  admira- 
tion. Of  Goethe’s  three  kinds  of  reverence — for  what  is 
above  us,  for  our  equals,  and  for  what  is  beneath  us — the 
second  only,  that  is  to  say  what  is  more  properly  called 
deference,  is  commonly  illustrated  by  Frenchmen.  Such 
a book  as  Mr.  Peter  Bayne’s  “ Lessons  from  my  Masters” 
would  be  a solecism  in  France.  The  proceedings  of  the 
Browning  Society  would  excite  amazement.  The  spirit  of 
the  Molieristes  and  that  of  the  Goethe  adorers  are  in  com- 
plete contrast.  The  intense  emotion  which  led  one  of 
Carlyle’s  secretaries  publicly  to  express  a sense  of  spirit- 
ual indebtedness  to  him  next  after  his  “ Lord  and  Saviour, 
Jesus  Christ,”  would  seem  whimsically  excessive.  No 
Frenchman  so  surrenders  himself  to  any  personal  influ- 
ence; awe  and  abjectness  are  equally  un-French.  The 
anecdote  of  one  contemporary  English  poet  going,  foot- 
stool in  hand,  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  another,  indicates  rather 
the  French  order  of  hero-worship,  which  if  less  cockney  in 
its  expression  is  characterized  by  the  same  sense  of  the 
importance  of  the  impersonal  function  discharged  in  com- 
mon by  the  hero  and  his  worshipper. 

Character,  being  thus  less  considered,  develops  less 
energy.  “ That  which  all  things  tend  to  educe — which 
freedom,  cultivation,  intercourse,  revolutions  go  to  form 
and  deliver — is  character,”  says  Emerson,  with  transcen- 
dental confidence.  Yes!  but  not  character  as  we  under- 
stand it,  not  individual  character  independent  of  its  envi- 
ronment. Freedom  goes  to  form  and  deliver  that,  most 


The  Social  Instinct 


I T 


assuredly,  but  not  necessarily  intercourse,  cultivation, 
revolutions — of  which  the  French  have  had  far  more  than 
they  have  had  of  freedom.  “ Trust  thyself! — every  heart 
vibrates  to  that  iron  string.”  In  France  every  heart  thus 
vibrates  only  when  the  said  string  sounds  a harmonious 
strain  in  concerted  music.  “ The  giants  must  live  apart. 
The  kings  can  have  no  company,”  says  Thackeray.  In 
Fra  \ce  the  giants  are  as  rare  as  the  pygmies.  The  social 
instinct  is  inimical  to  both.  The  great  Frenchmen,  it  has 
been  acidly  remarked,  are  apt  to  be  Italians,  and  in  effect 
the  way  in  which  individual  Italians  and  the  entire  French 
people  have  united,  at  various  epochs  in  history,  in  the 
accomplishment  of  great  works  is  exceedingly  instructive 
as  to  the  tendencies  of  either  civilization.  The  great 
Frenchmen  are  generally  great  on  their  human  and  social 
sides,  by  distinction  rather  than  by  energy.  They  are 
never  monsters.  No  ascetics  are  numbered  among  them. 
Their  minds  are  lofty,  but  they  are  not  self-gathered  in 
them.  Even  the  French  heroes  have  less  egoism  than 
vanity;  it  is  Henry  IV.,  not  Napoleon,  that  is  truly  na- 
tional. And,  as  history  reminds  us,  they  are  not  found 
isolated  but  in  groups,  whose  members  are  mutually  de- 
pendent and  supporting.  But  for  this,  and  for  the  general 
elevation  of  the  subsidiary  groups  around  them,  the  emi- 
nence of  many  of  them  would  be  more  conspicuous  than  it 
is;  many  merely  eminent  names  in  French  history  would 
shine  heroic  and  grandiose  on  the  roll  of  almost  any  other 
nation,  because  of  this  difference  in  perspective.  But  the 
great  accomplishments  of  France  have,  in  general,  been 
the  work  rather  of  the  nation  than  of  those  heroes  who 
“ look  at  the  stars  with  an  answering  ray.”  Wherever  the 
task  of  progress  has  demanded  intellectual  inspiration  or 
moral  energy,  it  is  the  Spaniard,  the  Italian,  the  English- 


12 


French  Traits 


man  who  excels,  but  it  is  the  French  people  entire.  The 
individual  work  of  its  exceptional  volcanic  spirits  like 
Mirabeau,  like  Danton,  is  apt  to  be  incomplete.  Solider 
building  is  done  by  the  nation  organized — despotically 
under  the  Corsican  Bonaparte,  autonomously  under  the 
Genoese  Gambetta.  The  Revolution,  the  conquering  of 
Europe,  the  freeing  of  the  human  spirit,  which  the  kings 
of  the  Continent  and  the  aristocracy  of  England  could 
only  temporarily  reimprison,  in  1815,  at  Vienna,  were 
Titanic  works  wrought  by  the  social  instinct  of  the  most 
completely  organic  people  in  history. 

In  the  familiar  and  every-day,  as  well  as  in  the  excep- 
tional and  heroic  work  of  life,  the  power  and  importance 
of  the  social  instinct  show  themselves  in  France  in  a way 
of  which  we  have  no  experience.  The  relations  between 
individuals  being  exalted  into  a distinct  social  force,  apart 
from  the  personalities  therewith  connected,  these  relations 
are  regulated,  utilized,  and  decorated  to  very  noteworthy 
ends.  They  are  used  with  us  mainly  for  business  pur- 
poses; it  is  chiefly,  perhaps,  the  commercial  traveller  who 
exploits  them.  The  rest  of  us  enjoy  them  or  neglect  them 
as  the  case  may  be,  but  take  no  thought  to  organize  and 
direct  them.  The  social  instinct,  nevertheless,  being  na- 
tive to  man,  even  to  man  in  our  environment  of  riotous 
individualism,  it  incurs  the  risk  of  becoming  depraved  if  it 
be  not  developed.  This,  indeed,  is  its  very  frequent  fate 
in  many  of  our  communities,  and  the  amount  of  positive 
debauchery  due  to  a perversion  of  this  instinct,  which  per- 
version is  itself  due  to  neglect,  is  very  suggestive.  And 
positive  debauchery  aside,  the  pathetic  failure  of  genial 
but  weak  natures  that  in  a truly  social  milieu  would  cer- 
tainly have  succeeded  is  still  more  significant  because  it  is 
still  more  hopeless.  In  France  social  capacity  is  a princi- 


The  Social  Instinct 


*3 

pal  part  of  the  youth’s  equipment  for  his  journey  through 
life.  In  virtue  of  it  young  men  rise  in  the  world,  obtain 
“protection,”  and  acquire  vantage  ground.  With  us, 
hitherto,  a turn  for  what  is  called  society  is  fully  as  likely 
to  be  a bar  as  an  aid  to  a young  man’s  success,  being  ac- 
cepted often  as  indicating  frivolity,  if  not  extravagance 
and  dissipation,  and,  at  all  events,  hostile  to  the  industry 
and  severe  application  which  pass  for  credentials  of  solid- 
ity. Success  in  an  industrial  society  does  not  depend  on 
the  favor  of  women,  and  we  are  wont  a little  to  contemn 
the  large  and  interesting  class  of  petits  jeunes  gens  of  which 
French  society  makes  so  much.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
have  many  accentuated  types  wholly  peculiar  to  ourselves 
and  generated  by  the  struggle  of  the  ambitious  and  in- 
tensely concentrated  individual  with  an  amorphous  and 
undeveloped  society  which  he  can  in  a measure  mould  as 
well  as  figure  in,  provided  only  his  energy  be  sufficient 
to  the  task.  Never  was  there  such  a field  for  the  parvenu 
as  that  we  furnish.  Never  was  the  parvenu  so  really  esti- 
mable and  distinguished  a person.  With  energy  and  per- 
sistence, a man  who  only  yesterday  ate  with  his  knife 
may  to-morrow  lay  down  rules  of  etiquette,  a beneficiary 
dispense  charity,  a country  merchant  regulate  a railway 
system — merely  by  the  force  through  which  strenuous  per- 
sonality imposes  itself  on  a society  whose  solidarity  is  too 
feeble  to  protect  it  against  assault  from  without  and 
treachery  from  within.  In  most  instances,  indeed,  our 
pretence  of  solidarity  is  pure  snobbishness,  and  our  par- 
venus really — as  was  said  of  Napoleon — arrives. 

The  Frenchman’s  instincts  and  impulses  receive,  on  the 
contrary,  a social  rather  than  an  egoistic  development. 
His  position  in  the  world,  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors, 
everything,  in  fact,  except  looking  for  the  resurrection  of 


14 


French  Traits 


the  dead,  which  prevents  him  from  being  of  all  men  most 
miserable,  are  obtained  by  a far  more  complex  exercise  of 
talent  than  that  ascetic  concentration  of  effort  known 
among  us  as  “ looking  out  for  Number  One.”  Look  out 
for  “ Number  One,”  the  Frenchman  certainly  does  in  the 
most  unflinching  and  devoted  manner;  but  the  process  is 
with  him  adapted  to  gregarious  rather  than  insulated  con- 
ditions. He  easily  spares  more  time  from  business  than 
we  do  from  idling  to  expend  in  the  expansiveness  neces- 
sary for  elaborate  social  development;  furthermore,  social 
conditions  with  him  prevent  time  so  expended  from  being, 
even  in  an  indirect  sense,  wasted,  so  that  he  is  never  more 
profitably  occupied  than  when  he  is,  so  to  speak,  least 
concentrated.  He  conquers  in  love,  war,  affairs,  and  so- 
ciety, not  as  with  us,  with  the  Germanic  peoples  generally, 
in  virtue  of  strenuous  personality,  but  through  many- 
sidedness,  appreciativeness,  perception,  sympathy — in  a 
word,  less  by  energy  than  by  intelligence.  And  this  intel- 
ligence itself  is  socially  developed.  The  late  M.  Caro 
said  of  the  Abbe  Roux  that  his  genius,  ” formed  in  soli- 
tude, outside  of  all  intellectual  commerce,  of  all  expan- 
sion,” is  characterized  by  “an  inner  spring  and  source  of 
ideas  in  their  native  state,  charged  with  parasitical  ele- 
ments neither  purged  by  essay  nor  filtered  by  discussion; 
by  ignorance  which  astonishes  in  connection  with  certain 
points  of  view  truly  striking;  by  faults  of  taste  unavoid- 
able in  the  absence  of  all  exterior  control  and  points  of 
comparison;  by  a certain  awkwardness,  sometimes  a sin- 
gular want  of  discernment,  and  hence  a defect  of  propor- 
tion and  development  between  thoughts  really  new  and 
those  which  seem  so  only  to  the  eyes  of  the  artist  who  be- 
lieves himself  to  have  discovered  them.”  One  could  not 
better  describe  the  traits  which,  in  our  life,  as  well  as  in 


The  Social  Instinct 


XS 


our  literature,  our  individualism  throws  into  sharp  relief 
in  contrast  with  those  of  the  French. 

In  his  “ Pensees  d’un  Solitaire”  the  Abb6  Roux  himself 
observes  that  “ men  of  talent,  so  long  as  they  have  only 
intuitive  experiences,  are  bound  to  commit  follies,”  and 
the  universal  prevalence  of  this  conviction  in  France 
secures  great  openness  and  spiritual  reciprocity.  There 
are  no  people  whom  it  is  “ difficult  to  know,”  who  are 
very  “reserved”  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  who  are 
particularly  “ reticent  ” about  their  own  affairs,  who  have 
“secrets”  and  resent  familiarity.  A high  development 
of  the  social  instinct  makes  short  work  of  these  varieties 
of  a type  well  known  and  rather  highly  esteemed  among 
ourselves.  It  unmasks  them  at  once  as  in  some  sort  pre- 
tenders, as  people  who  devote  a large  share  of  their  atten- 
tion, while  the  battle  of  life  is  raging,  to  keeping  open  the 
communications  in  their  rear,  either  for  opportunities  of 
retreat  or  in  order  to  execute  some  brilliant  flank  move- 
ment. In  other  words,  either  their  self-distrust  or  their 
self-conceit  is  shown  to  be  excessive.  In  France  the  bat- 
tle of  life  is,  socially  speaking,  nearly  a pure  figure  of 
speech.  The  foe  is  at  any  rate  impersonal.  No  one’s  in- 
dividual attitude  is  hostile  or  suspicious.  There  is  none 
of  the  exciting  competition  which  with  us  exists  among 
friendly  rivals  even.  Hence,  beyond  those  matters  which 
are  essentially  private,  being  nobody’s  business  and  right- 
fully appealing  to  nobody’s  interest,  people  generally  have 
nothing  to  conceal.  The  milieu  is  not  only  friendly,  but 
it  is  intelligent.  Neither  timidity  nor  strategy,  of  the 
kind  we  are  familiar  with,  would  avail  much  with  it.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  disguise  them.  The  “ reserve”  of 
our  young  ladies,  their  true  opinions  on  public  questions, 
the  secret  they  are  thinking  about,  which  young  men  are 


16 


French  Traits 


rewarded  by  being  permitted  gradually  to  discover  as 
they  become  better  and  better  acquainted,  are,  for  exam- 
ple, peculiar  to  ourselves;  but  in  France,  especially,  they 
would  be  purposeless  for  the  same  reason  that  inquiries 
as  to  the  secrets  of  freemasonry  or  the  composition  of 
patent  medicines  are — namely,  not  because  they  are  undis- 
coverable,  but  because  what  is  worth  knowing  about  them 
can  be  divined.  There  is,  of  course,  the  contrast  between 
the  bavard  and  the  nature  condensee , but  the  latter  is  none 
the  less  a frank  and  not  a secretive  nature.  There  are  no 
prigs. 

Competition  is  a great  word  with  us,  but  socially  it  im- 
plies a solecism.  It  means  egoism,  and  the  difference 
between  our  individualism  and  French  social  interdepen- 
dence is  very  well  shown  in  the  correspondence  of  our  ego- 
ism to  French  vanity.  How  far  egoism  may  be  carried, 
what  bleakness  it  may  introduce  into  life,  and  how  it  may 
blight  existence  one  may  easily  guess;  but  its  baleful 
influence  has  never  been  so  vividly  shown  as  in  that  very 
remarkable  book  published  a few  years  ago  and  entitled 
“ The  Story  of  a Country  Town.”  A more  important  con- 
tribution to  sociology  has  not  been  made  within  the  dec- 
ade. No  one  can  have  read  it  without  being  affected  by 
its  gloom,  its  moral  squalor,  its  ashen  tone.  There  is 
nothing  more  depressing  in  Russian  fiction,  and,  like  Rus- 
sian fiction,  it  is  wholly  unfactitious.  It  is  a picture 
entirely  typical,  and  typical  of  one  hesitates  to  say  how 
many  American  communities.  And  no  one  can  have  read 
it  attentively  without  perceiving  that  the  secret  of  its 
dreariness  is  its  picture  of  the  excesses  of  individualism. 
Lack  of  sympathy  with  each  other;  a narrow  and  degrad- 
ing struggle  for  ” success;”  a crying  competition;  a dull, 
leaden  introspection;  no  community  of  interest,  material 


The  Social  Instinct 


17 


or  ideal,  except  of  a grossly  material  religious  ideality; 
duty  ignorantly  conceived;  sacrifice  needlessly  made;  gen- 
erous impulses  leading  nowhither,  and  elevated  effort 
clogged  by  the  absence  of  worthy  ends;  the  human  spirit, 
in  fine,  thrown  back  on  itself  and  operating,  so  to  speak, 
in  vacuo;  and  the  partly  tragic,  chiefly  vulgar,  wholly 
sterile  conclusion  of  all  this  Mr.  Howe  has  painted  for  us 
with  a master-hand.  Beside  his  picture  the  wild  orgies 
and  bacchanalian  frenzy  of  a society  in  decadence  appear 
sane.  Beside  it,  at  all  events,  French  vanity  seems  anti- 
septic. Vanity  has  its  origin  in  approbativeness,  and  to 
study  to  please  is  a safeguard  against  many  evils  in  morals 
as  well  as  in  manners.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  mainly  through 
their  vanity  that  the  French  show  to  us  their  weak  side. 
It  is  a characteristic  that  in  excess  causes  character  to 
atrophy.  It  stimulates  cowardice  in  the  face  of  ridicule, 
and  leads  infallibly  to  puerile  confusions  of  shadow  and 
substance.  And  the  French  have  far  more  of  it  than  any 
other  people.  Stendhal  never  tires  of  reproaching  his 
countrymen  with  it,  and  declares  it  responsible  for  his 
exile  in  Italy.  Only  the  other  day  M.  Albert  Wolff,  whose 
competence  is  conspicuous,  declared  it  epidemic,  affirming 
French  society  entire  to  be  f rappee  par  le  fleau  de  la  vanitd. 
But  vanity  as  the  French  possess  it,  and  modified  as  it  is 
by  their  all-informing  intelligence,  is  a not  too  unpleasant, 
as  it  is  an  inevitable,  concomitant  of  the  spirit  of  society. 
Its  absence  would  mean,  logically,  infinitely  more  loss  than 
gain  in  social  relations.  “Nothing,”  says  Voltaire,  “is 
so  disagreeable  as  to  be  obscurely  hanged,”  and  together 
with  its  obvious  vanity  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  in  the 
remark  a feeling  of  fraternity  as  well. 

In  France,  indeed,  fraternity  is  as  it  were  in  the  air. 
This  sentiment,  which  is  the  poetic  side  of  the  notion  of 


2 


French  Traits 


18 


equality,  to  which  the  French  have  been  so  profoundly 
attached  since  the  very  beginnings  of  modern  society,  dur- 
ing the  break-up  of  the  Middle  Ages,  is  to  be  read  in  the 
expression  and  demeanor  of  everyone  to  be  met  with  in 
the  streets  as  unmistakably  as  it  is  stamped  on  all  the 
buildings  belonging  to  the  state.  Insensibly  you  find 
yourself  setting  out  with  the  feeling  that  every  stranger  is 
amicably  disposed.  Arriving  from  London,  either  at  Paris 
or  at  the  smallest  provincial  town — Calais  itself,  say — the 
absence  of  individual  competition,  of  personal  preoccupa- 
tion, of  all  the  varied  inhospitality,  the  stony,  inaccessible 
self-absorption  which  depress  the  stranger  in  London 
whenever  he  is  out  of  hail  of  an  acquaintance,  the  con- 
spicuous amenity  everywhere  suffuse  with  a profoundly 
grateful  warmth  the  very  cockles  of  the  American’s  heart. 
At  first  it  seems  as  if  all  the  world  were  really  one’s 
friends.  People  with  such  an  aspect  and  deportment 
would  be,  certainly,  in  New  York;  in  New  York  you 
would  feel  almost  as  if  you  could  borrow  money  of  them 
without  security.  You  look  for  the  personal  feeling,  the 
warmth,  the  glow  which  such  evident  amenity  stimulates 
in  your  own  breast.  You  find  no  real  response.  You  feel 
somehow  imposed  upon  and  resentful.  Nothing  is  less 
agreeable  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  heart  than  to  discover  that 
it  has  beaten  with  unreasonable  warmth,  that  the  occasion 
really  called  for  no  indulgence  of  sentiment.  You  under- 
stand Thackeray’s  feeling  toward  the  “ distinguished  for- 
eigner ” whom  he  met  crossing  the  Channel,  and  who 
“readily  admitted  the  superiority  of  the  Briton  on  the 
seas  or  elsewhere,”  only  to  discover  himself,  the  voyage 
over,  in  his  real  character  of  a hotel-runner — or,  as 
Thackeray  puts  it,  “an  impudent,  sneaking,  swindling 
French  humbug.”  Nothing  could  be  more  unreasonable; 


The  Social  Instinct 


19 


you  are  not  in  London  or  New  York  transformed  by  the 
millennium,  but  in  Paris — or  Calais,  as  I said.  The  Apoc- 
alyptic thousand  years’  reign  of  absolute  satisfactoriness 
is  still  in  the  distant  future.  Self-interest  is  still  a mo- 
tive, and  if  a cabman  is  less  extortionate  than  in  New 
York,  or  a policeman  more  specific  and  personal  in  his 
directions,  or  a fellow  ’bus  passenger  more  affably  com- 
municative, it  is  not  to  greater  delicacy  of  moral  fibre  that 
it  should  be  attributed,  but  to  a universal  feeling  that 
mankind  is  a fraternity  instead  of  a vast  mass  of  armed 
neutrals,  and  that,  cceteris  paribus , there  is  greater  pleasure 
to  be  got  out  of  the  lubrication  than  the  friction  of  points 
of  contact  between  individuals.  This,  elevated  into  a 
positive  system,  produces  the  amenity  which  is  as  clearly 
a boulevard  as  it  is  a salon  characteristic  in  France. 

Bo?ihomie  is  not  necessarily  bonte\  but  it  is  an  extremely 
pleasant  trait  to  find  on  every  hand — in  the  promenade,  in 
shopping,  travelling,  theatre-going,  gallery-visiting,  wher- 
ever, in  fact,  one  encounters  his  fellow-men  closely.  It  is 
pleasant  not  to  be  jostled  and  elbowed  in  crowds,  to  be 
greeted  in  entering  a shop,  to  be  spoken  to  civilly  and 
copiously  by  a casual  companion  on  a bench  of  the  Champs 
Elysees , to  be  treated  in  every  way,  in  fine,  humanely  and 
urbanely.  Urbanity  is  a Latin  word,  and  still  retains  its 
significance  in  Latin  cities,  notably  in  France;  whereas 
with  us  it  is  in  general  “ fine  old  country  gentlemen  ” who 
chiefly  illustrate  the  quality,  and  except  in  the  interior  of 
houses,  urban  and  urbane  are  epithets  of  broadly  differing 
significance.  But  charming  as  the  urbanity  of  French 
out-door  existence  is,  that  other  quality  of  bonhomie , of 
good-humor,  with  which  it  is  in  France  so  closely  asso- 
ciated— and  of  which  it  is,  indeed,  more  the  outward  ex- 
pression than  the  twin  trait  even — is  quite  as  charming. 


French  Traits 


20 


Urbane  the  citadins  of  Spain  and  Italy  are,  almost  invari- 
ably; but  their  urbanity  decorates  a different  quality — a 
high-bred  chivalry,  or,  among  the  lower  classes,  a fine 
natural  simplicity,  Fernan  Caballero’s  vaunted  naturalidad 
in  Spain;  and  in  Italy  a rich  geniality  which  sometimes 
breaks  quite  through  the  urbanity  and  recalls  our  own 
Westerner.  The  French  good-humor  seems  idiosyncratic. 

It  is  not  very  deep.  Often,  in  fact,  it  shows  itself  to  be 
so  shallow  that  very  bad  humor  is  easily  perceived  to  lie 
in  some  cases  disagreeably  near  the  surface.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  varied  light  and  shade  about  the  social  in- 
stinct. Mr.  Henry  James  permits  the  “ roaring  Yankee” 
of  his  “ The  Point  of  View  ” to  speak  of  the  Parisians  in 
the  mass  as  “little,  fat,  irritable  people.”  In  many 
respects  Paris  is  not  France,  and  probably  nearly  all  the 
genus  irritabile  to  be  found  in  France  is  concentrated  in 
the  capital.  At  Paris  you  certainly  hear,  first  and  last,  a 
good  deal  of  scolding.  Your  landlady  is  sure  to  scold  the 
servants  from  corridor  to  corridor,  and  these  latter — such 
is  the  spirit  of  fraternity — are  sure  to  scold  back.  More 
or  less  scolding  is  sure  to  force  itself  upon  your  attention 
out  of  doors.  The  cocker  scolds  his  horse,  the  gendarme 
scolds  the  cocker;  now  and  then  you  see  groups  actively 
engaged  in  this  kind  of  mutual  remonstrance.  It  is  to  be 
borne  in  mind  that  they  never  come  to  blows.  “ It  costs 
a lot  to  punch  a Frenchman’s  head,”  I heard  a compatriot 
remark  one  day — this  condition  of  affairs  demonstrating  a 
high  state  of  civilization,  or  a decadence  of  manly  spirit 
hedging  cowardice  about  with  tyrannical  regulations,  as 
one  chooses  to  consider  it.  Certainly  one  might  pass  a 
lifetime  in  Paris  without  witnessing  anything  similar  to  a 
scene  of  which  in  London  once  I was  an  excited — until  I 
observed  that  a nearer  policeman  was  a placid — spectator: 


The  Social  Instinct 


21 


namely,  a young  man  choking  and  cuffing  a crying  young 
woman  who  exhibited  every  sign  of  pain  and  anger,  but 
no  sense  of  outrage.  Individualism  fails  in  various  ways 
to  decorate  and  render  attractive  the  daily  life  of  a great 
city;  below  a certain  rank,  composed  of  the  surviving  fit- 
test, moves  an  amorphous  mass  of  units,  specifically  un- 
attractive owing  to  their  profound  lack  of  interest  in  them- 
selves and  their  conspicuous  moral  dejection,  and — owing 
to  the  prevalent  individualism — destitute  in  the  mass  of 
any  organic  or  homogeneous  interest.  Even  where  indi- 
vidualism has  to  contend  against  the  kind  of  fraternity 
with  which  it  is  not  inconsistent — the  kind  we  illustrate  in 
contrast  with  the  English,  the  kind  born  of  large  human 
sympathies'  exercised  under  a democratic  system  and  over 
a continent’s  extent — even  in  New  York  I remember  a 
characteristic  incident  which  one  could  never  expect  to  see 
paralleled  in  Paris.  Two  friends  had  quarrelled  in  a Bow- 
ery saloon,  and  having,  in  reporter’s  phrase,  “adjourned 
to  the  sidewalk, ’’  one  was  speedily  on  top  of  the  other, 
who,  unarmed  himself,  clutched  desperately  his  foe’s  up- 
lifted hand  which  held  a knife  over  him.  A crowd  quickly 
gathered  and  a stalwart  fellow  rushed  toward  the  strug- 
gling pair,  apparently  to  interfere,  but  drawing  a clasp- 
knife  from  his  poche  americaine  (as  it  is  called  by  French 
tailors),  he  opened  it  and  thrusting  it  into  the  hand  of  the 
under-dog,  exclaimed:  “Here’s  a knife  for  you,  too, 
young  fellow!’’  A policeman  supervened  and  closed  the 
incident.  At  Paris  this  would  have  seemed  savage  to  a 
“ professional  ’’  assassin.  In  five  cases  out  of  six  the  pas- 
sion which  produces  in  London  and  New  York  blows  and 
pistol-shots,  and  in  Naples  and  Seville  knife-thrusts,  ex- 
hales itself  in  vocables,  and  expends  its  force  in  gesticula- 
tion, The  French  nature  is  frivolous  and  superficial,  is 


22 


French  Traits 


the  explanation  given  in  all  the  English  books — the  books 
which,  having  none  of  our  own,  and  knowing  no  other 
language,  we  read  exclusively;  querulousness  takes  the 
place  of  passion,  bluster  and  storming  the  place  of  blows, 
adds  the  American  observer — the  implication  being  the 
same;  indeed,  Mr.  Henry  James  sums  it  up  in  so  many 
words  in  one  of  his  sketches  of  travel:  “ The  French  are 
a light,  pleasure-loving  people,  and  the  longest  study  of 
life  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  does  not  change  the  im- 
pression.” Certainly  not,  in  fair  weather;  when  the  skies 
are  clear  and  life  is  good  there  is  no  evidence  of  moping 
along  this  thoroughfare.  But,  seated  at  one  of  the  innu- 
merable little  tables  that  fringe  its  gay  terraces,  the  senti- 
mental traveller  may  read  in  his  Baedeker  the  suggestive 
statement  that  the  asphalt  beneath  him  was  substituted  by 
the  crafty  Napoleon  III.  for  stone  pavement  because  of 
the  chronic  disposition  of  the  Parisians  to  transform  the 
latter  into  barricades.  Cela  i/onne  a penser.  Readiness  to 
get  yourself  killed  upon  slight  provocation  hardly  attests 
frivolity,  but  seriousness  in  the  English  sense;  readiness 
to  sacrifice  one’s  life  in  defence  of  ideas  witnesses  the 
same  quality  in  the  French  sense.  A gradual  and  cumula- 
tive progress  in  every  revolution  of  importance  since  the 
days  of  Divine  Right  testifies  to  the  seriousness  of  the 
Parisian  people  in  every  sense.  Having  regard  simply  to 
separate  municipalities,  that  of  Paris,  in  fact,  seems  the 
only  serious  one  since  the  Middle  Ages. 

Nothing  is  more  common  with  us,  however,  than  to 
treat  this  same  characteristic  of  the  Parisian  as  not  only 
marked  evidence  of  his  frivolity,  but  as  merely  the  occa- 
sional exaggeration  of  his  habitual  querulousness.  But 
nothing  also  is  more  superficial,  and  one  cannot  live  long 
in  Paris  without  perceiving  that  the  querulousness  which 


The  Social  Instinct 


23 


at  first  strikes  one  is  itself  simply  the  defect  of  the  quality 
of  amenity,  which  is,  after  all,  universal  if  not  profound; 
just  as  blows  and  general  brutality  are  the  defect  of  the 
estimable  quality,  so  highly  prized  in  Anglo-Saxon  com- 
munities, of  absolute  and  profound  personal  sincerity. 
There  is  nothing  absolute  or  profound  about  French 
amenity.  Rightly  apprehended  the  nature  of  the  quality 
excludes  the  notion  of  profundity.  It  is  rather  a gloss,  a 
veneer,  a mere  outward  husk,  but  the  veneer  and  husk  of 
that  very  solid  feeling  of  fraternity  which  is  so  integral  a 
part  of  the  French  gospel.  In  England,  and  among  the 
large  and  increasing  class  of  anglicized  Americans  in  this 
country,  fraternity  is  still,  of  course,  a subject  of  philo- 
sophic controversy;  the  school  of  Mill  on  one  side,  think- 
ers like  Mill’s  implacable  critic,  Sir  James  Fitzjames  Ste- 
phen, on  the  other.  Sir  James  Stephen,  for  example,  whose 
feeling  comparison  of  the  Comtist  regard  for  humanity  to 
“ a childless  woman’s  love  for  a lap-dog  ” is  a fair  meas- 
ure of  his  sympathetic  quality,  maintains  that  “ the  French 
way  of  loving  the  human  race  is  the  one  of  their  many 
sins  which  it  is  most  difficult  to  forgive,”  and  that  “it  is 
not  love  that  one  wants  from  the  great  mass  of  mankind, 
but  respect  and  justice.”  But  the  brutality  of  the  Anglo- 
Indian  is  apt  to  be  as  mistaken  as  it  is  brilliant.  Respect 
and  justice  are  precisely  the  qualities  of  French  fraternity, 
and  the  “ love  ” with  which  Sir  James  Stephen  objects  to 
being  “daubed”  is  quite  foreign  to  it.  The  propagan- 
dism  of  the  Revolution  was  rational,  not  sentimental.  No 
doubt  it  and  other  manifestations  of  French  feeling  toward 
foreigners  shine  in  friendliness  and  kindliness  by  contrast 
with  the  respect  and  justice  accorded  by  Sir  James  Ste- 
phen’s compatriots  to  their  fellows  in  India  and  Ireland, 
but  impatience  with  prejudice  and  tradition  and  an  ardor 


24 


French  Traits 


for  the  rational  and  the  real  are  their  central  characteris- 
tics. The  Frenchman  feels  under  no  necessity  of  either 
disliking  you  or  else  becoming  familiar  by  intruding  his 
personality — which  seems  a not  uncommon  Anglo-Saxon 
affliction.  We  know  best,  perhaps,  how  to  treat  each 
other  in  intimacy;  Frenchmen,  in  the  general  situation. 
Fraternity  has  slight  relations  to  “ Friendship,”  as  Tho- 
reau  rhapsodizes  about  it,  and  as  the  classic  examples 
illustrate  it.  In  friendship  the  individual  element  is  in- 
tensified, in  fraternity  it  is  extenuated.  Fraternity,  in  a 
word,  is  not  a militant  virtue;  it  is  simply  the  unfailing 
accompaniment  of  the  social  instinct,  and  in  France, 
therefore,  is  universally  accepted  so  much  as  a matter  of 
course,  as  the  necessary  and  natural  basis  of  human  rela- 
tions, that  its  praise  is  become  merely  subject-matter  for 
perorations,  political  and  other,  as  the  praise  of  freedom, 
for  example,  is  with  the  English  and  with  us.  And  when 
such  a sentiment  becomes  a common-place,  when  such  an 
idea  comes  popularly  to  be  esteemed  a platitude  rather 
than  a principle,  men  no  longer  fall  upon  one  another’s 
necks  in  illustration  of  its  potency  and  in  witness  of  their 
personal  adhesion  to  it.  All  the  same,  it  loses  little  of  its 
vitality.  The  members  of  those  large  families  which,  as 
an  English  writer  astutely  remarks,  are  not  apt  to  be  very 
” civil-spoken  things,”  certainly  do  not  act  among  us  as 
if  they  had  constantly  in  mind  the  precepts  of  the  133d 
Psalm,  with  which,  nevertheless,  they  may  be  presumed  to 
be  in  full  accord.  “A  good  father  in  conversation  with 
his  children  or  wife  is  not  perpetually  embracing  them,” 
says  Thackeray;  but  the  fact  of  relationship  is  none  the 
less  potent  as  a pervasive  influence  on  conduct  and  de- 
meanor. And  so  the  mutual  activities  of  a society  which, 
like  that  of  France,  resembles  very  closely  a large  family 


The  Social  Instinct 


25 


are  thus  influenced  in  a very  delightful  way,  if  not  to  an 
intense  degree,  by  the  decorous  and  decorative  virtue  of 
fraternal  kindliness  and  good  feeling.  The  home,  the  in- 
terior, may  mean  less  to  Frenchmen  than  it  does  to  us, 
but  the  community  means  incontestably  more,  and  the 
feeling  for  country  easily  becomes  supreme. 

Patriotism,  in  fact,  takes  the  place  of  religion  in  France. 
In  the  service  of  la  patrie  the  doing  of  one’s  duty  is  ele- 
vated into  the  sphere  of  exalted  emotion.  To  say  that 
the  French  are  more  patriotic  than  other  peoples  would  be 
to  say  what  is  in  its  nature  incapable  of  substantiation. 
But  I think  it  incontestable  that,  more  than  any  other 
people,  they  make  patriotism  the  source  and  subject  of 
their  profoundest  emotional  life.  Only  here  do  they  lay 
aside  reason  and  abandon  intelligence  to  surrender  them- 
selves voluntarily  to  the  sway  of  instinct  and  passion. 
Only  in  regard  to  la  France  do  they  permit  themselves 
illusions.  Only  here  does  sentiment  triumph  freely  and 
completely  over  calculation.  Patriotism  thus  plays  a far 
larger  part  in  their  national  existence  than  in  that  of  other 
peoples.  None  of  its  manifestations  seem  absurd  to  them. 
The  classic  remark  regarding  the  charge  of  Balaclava, 
“ C’est  magnifique,  mais  ce  n’est  pas  la  guerre,”  is,  to  be 
sure,  a protest  against  the  excesses  of  corporalism.  But 
such  a sacrifice  in  direct  illustration  of  patriotism  would 
be  regarded  in  France  almost  as  an  opportunity;  it  would 
be  looked  upon  as  the  early  Christians  looked  upon  mar- 
tyrdom. 

Sir  John  Fortescue,  exiled  in  France  during  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses,  writes:  “It  is  cowardise  and  lack  of  hartes  and 
corage  that  kepith  the  Frenchmen  from  rising,  and  not 
povertye:  which  corage  no  Frenche  man  hath  like  to  the 
English  man.  It  hath  been  often  seen  in  Englond  that 


26 


French  Traits 


three  or  four  thefes  for  povertie  hath  set  upon  8 true  men 
and  robbed  them  al.  But  it  hath  not  been  seen  in  Fraunce 
that  vii  or  viij  thefes  have  been  hardy  to  robbe  iii  or  iv 
true  men.  Wherefor  it  is  right  seld  that  Frenchmen  be 
hanged  for  robberye  for  that  they  have  no  hertys  to  do 
so  terrible  an  acte.  There  be  therefor  mo  men  hangyed 
in  Englond  in  a yere  for  robberye  and  manslaughter  than 
there  be  hangid  in  Fraunce  for  such  crime  in  vij  yers.” 
Sir  John  writes,  you  will  observe,  very  much  in  the  spirit 
of  modern  English  criticism  of  the  French.  This  is  the 
feeling  of  which  Thackeray,  for  example,  can  never  free 
himself,  which  inspires  “ Punch,”  which  all  the  Paris  cor- 
respondents display,  which  underlies  every  French  allusion 
in  our  own  anglicized  journals.  In  citing  Sir  John,  how- 
ever, M.  Taine,  who  shamelessly  records  as  current  statis- 
tics ”42  cases  of  highway  robbery  in  France  against  738 
in  England,”  explains,  in  a footnote,  the  reason  for  this 
lamentable  lack  of  44  hertys”  on  the  part  of  his  country- 
men. “The  English,”  he  says,  44  always  forget  to  be 
polite,  and  miss  the  fine  distinctions  of  things.  Under- 
stand here  brutal  courage,  the  disputatious  and  indepen- 
dent instinct.  The  French  race,  and  in  general  the  Gallic 
race,  is  perhaps  among  all  the  most  prodigal  of  its  life.” 
That  is  the  difference,  exactly.  The  social  and  the  indi- 
vidual instinct  operate  here,  we  perceive,  each  in  its  own 
way.  One  has  only  to  think  of  the  title  of  France  to  be 
called  a military  nation  (even  Prussian  military  terminol- 
ogy is  French),  or  of  the  suggestions  contained  in  the 
word  “barricade”  to  appreciate  how  reckless  of  every- 
thing men  selfishly  prize  in  this  world  are  all  Frenchmen 
when  patriotic  takes  the  place  of  personal  feeling.  No 
country,  it  is  probable,  except  perhaps  our  own  Southern 
States,  ever  made  such  immense  sacrifices  of  life  and 


The  Social  Instinct 


27 


treasure,  after  all  reasonable  hope  was  over,  as  France 
did  between  the  fall  of  Metz  and  the  Treaty  of  Frankfort. 
In  no  other  country  would  such  resistance  to  overwhelm- 
ing force  as  that  of  Gambetta  have  proved  a statesman’s 
chief  title  to  fame;  nowhere  else  would  even  the  enemies 
of  such  a man  so  readily  admit  that  to  raise  ill-armed, 
half-starved,  under-aged,  raw  levies,  and  oppose  them  to 
disciplined  troops  of  twice  their  numbers  with  a steadfast- 
ness that  had  outlived  hope,  was  to  save  the  honor  of  the 
country.  The  public  opinion  which  thus  magnifies  patri- 
otism into  a religion  is  a force  of  which  it  is  difficult  to 
appreciate,  and  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  strength.  A 
vivid  illustration  of  it  is  given  in  an  incident  of  one  of 
the  stories  grouped  by  M.  Ludovic  Halevy  under  the  title, 
“ L’lnvasion.”  A poor  woman,  whose  husband  and  son 
had  been  taken  by  the  last  conscription,  ejaculates,  as  the 
mobiles  are  leaving  the  village:  “ What  cowards  the  French 
must  be  to  let  themselves  be  dragged  to  war  like  that!” 
The  utterance  was  a cry  of  individualism  wrung  from  the 
egotism  of  a mother’s  heart,  but  M.  Halevy  chronicles  it 
as  extraordinary,  and  it  only  serves  thus  to  emphasize  the 
strength  and  universality  of  the  feeling  against  which  it 
protested,  and  of  striking  instances  of  which  M.  Halevy’s 
little  volume  is  full. 

It  is,  indeed,  a record  of  heroic  self-sacrifice  on  the 
altar  of  country  which  in  certain  qualities  it  would  be  hard 
to  match.  The  tone  is  low  and  quiet,  there  is  no  exag- 
geration, and  there  is  no  disguise  of  the  near  proximity  to 
gayety  in  which  Gallic  gravity  always  exists.  I venture 
to  translate  the  following  incident  related  in  M.  Haffivy’s 
words  by  a nurse  in  the  military  hospital  at  Vendome:  “ I 
remember  especially,”  says  the  infirmier , “a  young  man, 
almost  a child — he  was  eighteen  years  old.  He  was 


28 


French  Traits 


brought  to  us,  with  a ball  in  the  chest,  December  16th. 
He  had  been  wounded  quite  near  Vendome.  He  died 
three  days  afterward.  He  must  have  suffered  much,  for 
his  wound  was  very  deep  indeed.  He  made  no  com- 
plaint, however.  He  told  us  that  he  was  an  only  son — 
that  he  had  volunteered  in  July,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  His  mother  opposed  his  project,  wept  bitterly,  and 
tried  to  retain  him.  But  he  had  done  that  as  a duty.  He 
had  set  out  in  the  Army  of  Sedan;  he  had  succeeded  in 
escaping  through  Belgium;  he  had  continued  the  cam- 
paign in  the  Army  of  the  Loire;  he  had  become  a ser- 
geant. Before  dying  he  confessed,  and  in  the  presence  of 
everybody  he  received  the  sacrament  with  a wonderful 
tranquillity.  During  the  three  days  in  which  he  was  dying 
— for  we  had  seen  at  once  that  he  was  lost — he  gave  way 
only  when  he  spoke  of  his  mother;  then  the  tears  stood  in 
his  eyes  and  he  gazed  long  at  a photograph  of  her  which 
he  had  taken  with  him.  He  asked  pardon  of  her  for  the 
chagrin  his  death  would  cause  her.  He  had  asked  us  to 
lay  aside  his  tunic  with  his  chevrons  of  sergeant  to  be  sent 
to  his  mother  after  the  war.  He  died  kissing  his  little 
photograph.  We  were  greatly  embarrassed.  We  did  not 
know  whether  we  ought  to  keep  this  photograph  for  the 
mother  or  to  put  it  in  the  coffin.  It  seemed  to  us  better 
to  put  it  with  him  in  the  bier,  and  that  is  what  we  did.” 

I think  no  one  can  fail  to  remark  the  admirable  sim- 
plicity of  this,  quite  unalloyed  either  with  the  solemn  in- 
tensity that  is  undoubtedly  Germanic  or  with  the  bravado 
we  are  ludicrously  apt  to  fancy  natural  to  the  Frenchman. 
There  is  a distinct  shade  of  elasticity  of  spirit  noticeable 
in  the  moral  attitude  of  this  youth  that  is  typically  French. 
A contained  exaltation  quite  unassociated  with  what  we 
ordinarily  mean  by  conscious  renunciation  seems  to  be  his 


The  Social  Instinct 


*9 


support  or  rather  his  stimulus.  He  is  not  a hero  in  any 
explicit  way;  his  social  side  is  uppermost.  The  same 
phenomenon  is  observable  in  death-bed  scenes  in  which 
for  the  sacraments  of  the  church  the  decoration  of  the 
state  is  substituted.  And  this  discloses  the  real  truth 
about  this  patriotism  which  is  the  religion  of  Frenchmen, 
in  whose  sphere  calculation  is  lost  in  sentiment  and  inter- 
est is  transmuted  into  self-sacrifice — namely,  that  it  is  the 
sublimation  of  the  social  instinct  in  a more  eminent  degree 
and  more  conspicuous  manner  than  the  patriotic  sentiment 
of  any  other  people  in  the  world.  All  purely  personal 
feeling  is  absorbed  in  it.  Every  personal  aspiration  is  sat- 
isfied by  it.  To  an  American  dying  of  a wound  received 
in  the  defence  of  his  country  the  presentation  of  a bit  of 
red  ribbon  by  the  government  of  his  country  would  un- 
doubtedly seem  a barren  performance  enough.  His  per- 
sonal sense  of  duty  discharged,  of  a supreme  sacrifice 
unselfishly  made,  would  in  such  an  hour  fill  his  mind  to 
the  exclusion  of  any  demonstrations  of  a social  order  that 
the  compatriots  whom  he  was  about  to  leave  forever  could 
make.  Dying  with  us  is  a private  affair;  the  association 
with  it  of  the  paraphernalia  of  life  is  apt  to  jar  upon  our 
sense.  “ The  world  has  been  my  country,  to  do  good  my 
religion,”  is  a more  consoling  dying  thought  than  the 
dulce  et  decorum  est  of  Horace,  even  on  the  battle-field.  We 
have  been  from  our  youth  up  so  accustomed  to  personal 
concentration,  so  habituated  to  being  in  the  world  but  not 
of  it,  so  used  to  considering  our  environment  hostile,  that 
this  feeling  remains  even  if  we  have  ceased  to  look  upon 
heaven  as  our  true  home  and  the  celestial  hosts  as  our  real 
family.  Emerson’s  breezy  lines, 

“ Good-by,  proud  world,  I’m  going  home, 

Thou’rt  not  my  friend,  and  I’m  not  thine,” 


3o 


French  Traits 


find  an  echo  in  all  our  hearts,  but  wherever  one  meets 
with  anything  of  the  kind  in  French  literature  the  strain  is 
factitious,  the  sentiment  borders  on  bravado,  and  we  feel 
instinctively  that  what  disguises  itself  as  longing  is  really 
lament. 

Now,  the  moment  we  appreciate  that  in  the  character  of 
the  French  people  it  is  the  social  rather  than  the  individ- 
ual instinct  which  predominates,  we  can  see  how  this  is 
the  secret  of  the  French,  how  it  accounts  for  the  differ- 
ences between  them  and  us  as  individuals,  and  for  our  in- 
veterate misconception  of  them;  how  they  in  distinction 
from  ourselves  live  for  the  present  world,  are  alive  to 
actuality,  desire  passionately  to  please,  are  passionately 
pleasetl  with  admiration,  have  no  talent  for  renunciation, 
but  a very  genius  for  expression  and  expansion;  how  prac- 
tical and  prosaic  is  their  disregard  for  certain  ideal  quali- 
ties of  the  soul  which  are  with  us  of  a “ sacred  and  secret  ” 
nature;  how  little  personal  life  they  have;  how  much  more 
manners  count  with  them  than  does  character,  beyond 
those  points  where  both  are  tolerable.  And  we  can  see 
also  how,  nationally  and  organically,  they  have,  since  the 
communal  revolution  of  the  twelfth  century,  been  not 
merely  the  chief  but  the  only  highly  organized  people 
which  has  succeeded  to  the  civilizing  work  of  the  Roman 
Empire  in  itself  essaying  social  experimentation,  if  not  in 
the  interest,  at  least  to  the  profit,  of  mankind.  “ There 
are  no  questions,”  said  Gambetta,  superbly,  “but  social 
questions.”  The  apothegm  formulates  the  spiritual  in- 
stinct of  France  since  the  days  of  her  national  beginnings. 
It  formulates  also,  I think,  the  instinct  of  the  future. 
That  is  why  France  is  so  inexhaustibly  interesting — be- 
cause in  one  way  or  another  she,  far  more  than  any  other 
nation , has  always  represented  the  aspirations  of  civiliza- 


The  Social  Instinct 


3i 


tion,  because  she  has  always  sought  development  in  com- 
mon, and  because  in  this  respect  the  ideal  she  has  always 
followed  is  the  ideal  of  the  future.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  in- 
separable from  the  visions  which  a material  age  permits  to 
the  few  idealists  of  to-dav. 


CHAPTER  II 


MORALITY 

Since  Professor  Lounsbury’s  not  too  sympathetic  but 
admirably  thorough-going  biography,  it  has  become  possi- 
ble to  cite  Cooper  again.  In  one  of  his  sea-stories,  a mas- 
terpiece in  every  way,  but  quite  as  remarkable  for  its 
“international”  as  for  its  purely  dramatic  and  human 
interest,  Cooper  contrives  a trifling  incident  which  felici- 
tously illustrates  the  habitual  Anglo-Saxon  attitude  toward 
the  French  whenever  there  is  any  question  of  morality. 
The  bluff,  hearty,  “ thoroughly  English  ” commander  of  a 
seventy-four  during  the  wars  against  the  first  Republic  has 
just  succeeded,  as  he  imagines,  in  burning  the  little  French 
privateer  Le  Feu  Follet,  with  all  on  board,  after  the  fash- 
ion becoming  a successor  of  Drake  and  Raleigh,  and  bet- 
ter adapted  to  the  end  of  Britannia’s  ruling  of  the  waves 
than  reminiscent  of  the  spirit  which  is  supposed  once  to 
have  animated  what  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  trenchantly 
calls  “ the  rotten  carcass  of  chivalry.”  As  the  fire-ship 
was  bearing  down  on  the  French  vessel,  strains  of  music 
had  reached  the  ears  of  the  English.  Ghita  Caraccioli — a 
relative  of  the  Prince  whom  Nelson  was  to  hang  the  fol- 
lowing day — was  singing  to  the  strumming  of  her  guitar 
on  the  Frenchman’s  deck  in  the  moonlight,  her  lover 
Raoul,  the  handsome  young  privateersman  himself,  by 
turns  listening  with  delight  and  abstractedly  reflecting  on 
the  perverse  piety  which  forbade  his  Italian  mistress  to 


Morality 


33 


wed  a confessed  unbeliever — one  of  the  prettiest  and  most 
delicately  touched  love  scenes  to  be  found  in  fiction.  The 
sincere  and  unsentimental  Captain  Cuffe  ends  his  report  of 
his  exploit  to  the  Admiral:  “The  lugger  was  filled  with 
loose  women;  our  people  hearing  them  singing  their  philo- 
sophical and  irreligious  songs  as  they  approached  with  the 
fire-vessel.  ” 

Cooper  was  very  happy  in  this  way.  A generation  ago 
he  furnished  an  excellent  corrective  to  the  then  popular 
notion  of  the  ex  vi  termini  baseness  of  American  Tories 
during  the  Revolutionary  period;  and  his  portraiture  of 
American  character  includes  types  which  for  intimately 
unflattering  verisimilitude  were  a liberal  education  in  cath- 
olic temper  and  the  faculty  of  seeing  one’s  self  as  one 
really  is.  At  the  present  moment,  while  English  influ- 
ences are  permeating  our  political  and  social  activities 
from  philosophy  to  fashion,  we  have  certainly  little  need 
of  Cooper  to  persuade  us  that  Englishmen  have  the  quali- 
ties of  their  defects.  But  his  treatment  of  French  charac- 
ter, as  in  “ Le  Feu  Follet,”  for  example,  and  the  slight 
stress  he  lays  on  it — as  if  it  were  not  at  all  a novel  view 
that  he  was  taking — reminds  one  of  an  epoch  in  American 
feeling  when  Franklin’s  reception  in  France  and  Lafay- 
ette’s generous  enthusiasm  were  more  than  memories; 
when  the  circumstance  that  “ the  streets  of  Paris  rang 
with  the  name  of  Washington”  was  not  ascribed  to  Ver- 
sailles diplomacy,  and  when  liberal  spirits,  at  least,  appre- 
ciated that  even  in  such  fundamental  matters  as  morality, 
la  difference  need  not — as  Stendhal  asserts  that  it  does  in 
fact — produce  la  haine. 

Morality  is  indeed  a fundamental  matter,  and  French 
morality  differs  fundamentally  from  our  own.  But  this  is 
only  all  the  more  reason  for  replacing  censoriousness  by 
3 


34 


French  Traits 


candor  in  any  consideration  of  it.  And  the  first  admis- 
sion which  candor  compels  us  to  make  is  the  unfairness  of 
estimating  the  French  moral  fibre  by  what  ours  would  be 
if  subjected  to  the  same  standards  and  influenced  by  the 
same  circumstances.  Yet  this  is  an  error  that  we  make 
continually.  Consciously  or  unconsciously  we  conceive 
our  manners  and  character  as  a constant  quantity,  and 
reflect  on  the  fate  which  indisputably  would  overtake  our 
morals  if  we  should  adopt  French  ethics.  And  by  retain- 
ing our  manners  and  character,  and  adopting  their  ethics, 
we  should  no  more  attain  the  French  moral  result  than,  to 
turn  the  case  around  a little,  Sophocles,  Solomon,  Horace, 
Raphael,  Goethe,  would  have  attained  their  success  had 
•they  committed  their  characteristic  indiscretions  amid  the 
environment  which  produced  Jonathan  Edwards  and  Cot- 
ton Mather.  The  truth,  of  course,  is,  that  the  French 
differ  from  us  as  much  in  constitution  and  manners  as  in 
ethics.  French  morality  is  a direct  derivative  of  the  social 
instinct.  Owing  to  the  development  of  this  instinct  among 
them  morality  is  rather  a social  than  an  individual  force, 
and  the  key  to  its  nature  is  to  be  found  in  the  substitution 
of  honor  for  duty  as  a main-spring  of  action  and  a regu- 
lator of  conduct.  The  distinction  is  a very  plain,  a very 
real  one.  Between  the  two  there  is  all  the  difference  that 
there  is  between  the  inspiration,  say,  of  Lovelace’s  fine 
lines: 

“ I could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much 
Loved  I not  honor  more,” 

and  that  of  Wordsworth’s  apostrophe, 

“ Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! ” 

Carlyle  indicates  very  forcibly  what  seems  to  us  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  French  ethical  ideal  in  concluding  one  of 


Morality 


35 


the  brilliant  papers  now  buried  for  a positive  generation 
under  the  title  “ Past  and  Present.”  He  says:  “ ‘ These 
poor,  persecuted  Scotch  Covenanters,’  said  I to  my  in- 
quiring Frenchman,  in  such  stinted  French  as  stood  at 
command,  ' ils  e?i  appelaient  ' — 'A  la  posterity  ' interrupted 
he,  helping  me  out.  'Ah!  Monsieur , non , mille  fois  non! 
They  appealed  to  the  eternal  God,  not  to  posterity  at  all. 
C'etait  different!'  ” Every  Anglo-Saxon  reading  this  in- 
stinctively agrees  with  Carlyle  that  it  was  different  indeed. 
Any  Frenchman,  on  the  other  hand,  would  ascribe  the 
distinction  to  the  vague  exaltation  of  fanaticism.  To  the 
French  sense  such  a distinction  indicates  a lack  of  sanity, 
of  that  measure  to  which — if  one  may  say  so  without  par- 
adox— tht  French  are  almost  fanatically  attached.  “In 
all  questions  concerning  the  conscience,”  the  Frenchman 
would  say,  “ the  important  point  is  whether  or  no  the  con- 
science decides  aright.  The  immense  value  Anglo-Saxons 
attach  to  its  activity,  its  sensitiveness,  becomes  at  once 
a misleading  and  fatal  estimation  whenever  it  decides 
wrongly;  in  such  instances  the  value  attached  to  it  only 
gives  authority  to  error.  Fanaticism,  that  most  unpleas- 
ant and  least  useful  condition  of  the  mind,  instantly  en- 
sues. The  only  real  appeal  in  cases  of  disputed  decision 
— cases  like  that  of  the  Scotch  Covenanters  just  men- 
tioned— is  to  posterity,  to  time,  to  the  universal  con- 
science, the  common  consciousness  of  mankind.  In  any 
other  sense  than  this — the  sense  in  which  vox  populi  and 
vox  Dei  are  really  identical — any  talk  about  the  arbitra- 
ment of  the  eternal  God  is  too  vague  to  be  useful,  and 
being  vague  too  solemn  not  to  be  harmful.  Even  one  of 
your  writers  who,  as  M.  Challemel-Lacour  has  testified, 
seems  to  us  to  put  an  altogether  exaggerated  estimate 
upon  conduct  and  morality,  a writer  who  observes  that  a 


3« 


French  Traits 


Methodist  navvy  * deals  successfully  with  nearly  the  whole 
of  life,’  while  the  ‘dissolute,  gifted,  brilliant  grandee,’ 
whom  he  compares  with  him,  ‘ is  all  abroad  in  it,’  is  never- 
theless forced  to  say  that  with  conscience  one  has  ‘ done 
nothing  until  he  has  got  to  the  bottom  of  conscience  and 
made  it  tell  him  right.'  ” 

One  never  talks  with  a Frenchman  on  these  matters 
without  perceiving  that  to  be  right,  to  be  at  the  centre  of 
things,  not  to  be  duped,  is  to  his  mind  the  summum  bonum. 
It  is  the  premise  from  which  he  invariably  sets  out;  it  is, 
in  fact,  a passion  with  him;  of  many  Frenchmen  it  can 
even  be  said,  as  Taine  said  of  M£rimee,  that  they  are  the 
dupes  of  their  distrust.  To  rely  implicitly  upon  one’s 
conscience  is,  of  course,  a famous  way  of  being  profoundly 
duped.  It  is  the  infallible  accompaniment  of  fanaticism; 
fanaticism  is  bite;  to  be  bite  is  impossible — the  very  notion 
of  it  insufferable.  In  this  way  the  Frenchman  comes  nat- 
urally to  think  very  little  of  conscience,  to  have  very  lit- 
tle to  do  with  it.  His  reliance  is  upon  an  outward,  not 
the  inward  monitor,  the  voice  of  society  in  general,  the 
suggestions  of  culture,  the  dictates  of  science.  His  litera- 
ture contains  no  analogue  of  Bunyan  or  of  Johnson.  To 
him  the  admonition,  “ the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you,” 
is  addressed  to  the  heart,  the  emotions,  the  soul — an 
aphorism  consolatory  and  religious,  but  having  less  than 
nothing  to  do  with  the  grand  object  of  daily  life,  the  great 
secret  of  success  in  this  world — namely,  the  certainty  that 
one’s  light  is  not  darkness. 

It  is  well  known  that  our  view,  the  Anglo-Saxon  view, 
is  just  the  reverse  of  this.  We  exalt  the  functions  of  con- 
science, and  we  are  not  concerned,  so  long  as  we  obey  its 
behests,  whether  or  no  at  some  future  time  it  may  not  give 
us  different  counsel  and  so,  to  a greater  or  less  degree, 


Morality 


37 


stultify  itself  as  a guide.  We  admit  its  fallibility  in  ad- 
vance, and  it  surprises  us  that  this  should  surprise  the 
French  observer.  Where  is  infallibility  to  be  found,  we 
ask;  it  seems  credulous  and  simple  to  seek  it.  The  im- 
portant thing  is  to  act  up  to  the  best  light  that  you  have, 
in  accordance  with  the  first  part  of  Bishop  Wilson’s  cele- 
brated maxim;  the  other  part  will  in  this  way,  we  vaguely 
feel,  gradually  come  to  take  care  of  itself.  We  have  no 
passion  for  pure  reason.  We  have,  in  fact,  so  little  sym- 
pathy with  mere  cleverness,  as  we  call  it,  with  exclusive 
devotion  to  the  things  of  the  mind,  that  it  is  difficult  for 
us  to  appreciate  how  a society  can  be  great  and  distin- 
guished which  is,  like  France,  wholly  given  over  to  them, 
and  which  in  matters  of  personal  conduct,  to  us  the  all 
important  concern  of  life,  obeys  not  the  inward  monitor 
of  conscience  but  the  outward  constraint  of  public  opin- 
ion. This  view  the  French  themselves  invariably  ascribe 
to  Puritanism,  which  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  considering 
the  substantial  unanimity  with  which  the  partisans  of 
Puritanism  among  us  make  the  same  ascription.  But 
what  is  the  origin  of  Puritanism  itself  ? The  truth  is  that 
Puritanism  is  merely  the  excess  of  the  individual  spirit 
manifested  in  the  exaltation  of  conscience.  It  is  itself  an 
effect.  The  intimate,  personal  view  of  morality  is  held 
by  peoples  and  persons  who  never  came  into  contact  with 
Puritanism.  It  is  as  common  in  Norway  as  in  New  Eng- 
land, and  is  as  firmly  held  where  Luther  re-enthroned  the 
individual  conscience  as  it  is  wherever  the  Shorter  Cate- 
chism is  expounded.  Its  only  foes  are  the  Catholic 
Church,  which  absorbs  the  devotion  of  the  communities 
in  which  it  reigns,  and  that  extremely  elaborate  social  de- 
velopment which  the  humanity  of  Catholicism  indirectly 
fosters.  Everywhere  in  Protestant  and  personal  commu- 


38 


French  Traits 


nities  public  opinion  itself  shares  Owen  Meredith’s  senti- 
ment: “ The  Crowd-made  Conscience  is  a Harlot  bold  ” — 
a sentiment  fairly  swaggering  with  individual  dignity. 

M.  Renan  calls  glory  “the  thing  which,  after  all,  has 
the  best  chance  of  being  not  altogether  vanity.’’  That 
would  indeed  be  news  to  the  Preacher,  would  it  not?  The 
Preacher’s  social  instinct  was  far  less  developed  than  M. 
Renan’s.  How  often  have  we  not,  all  of  us,  ridiculed  the 
French  respect  for  la  gloire , having  ourselves  an  intimate 
conviction  that  in  the  entire  catalogue  of  vanities  there  is 
none  so  hollow  as  this  same  extrinsic  applause.  No  one 
would  of  course  deny  that  there  are  individuals  among  us 
who  care  a great  deal  for  this  vanity,  but  it  is,  in  fine,  dis- 
tinctly not  our  ideal,  and  we  are  saved  in  great  measure 
from  any  danger  of  becoming  openly  enamoured  of  it  by 
the  abundance,  the  universality — and  one  might  add  the 
sincerity — of  our  cant  upon  the  subject.  But  the  French 
are  unblushing  about  it,  and  probably  incorrigible.  It  is 
another  phase  of  their  anxiety  to  be  in  the  right — that  is, 
to  think  rightly,  without  passion  or  personal  prejudice, 
about  any  given  matter — which  leads  them  to  place  a high 
value  upon  extrinsic  opinion,  and  to  shun  the  eccentricity 
and  whimsical  fanaticism  which  are  so  often  the  concomi- 
tants of  concentration  and  which,  whatever  the  verdict  of 
Carlyle’s  eternal  God,  they  think  posterity  at  all  events 
will  disapprove,  even  if  current  public  opinion  be  mis- 
taken. Thus  by  the  operation  of  a natural  law  public 
opinion  becomes  in  its  turn  much  more  worthy  of  being 
followed  than  it  is  where  it  occupies  the  subordinate  place 
we  assign  it;  its  qualities  increase  in  proportion  to  its 
dignity.  It  should  be  remembered  that  the  pursuit  of  la 
gloire  in  France  is  a very  different  thing  from  the  analo- 
gous seeking  of  the  bubble  reputation  with  us,  and  that  in 


M orality 


39 


proportion  as  the  prize  becomes  important  the  effort  to 
obtain  it  becomes  laudable. 

And  the  substitution  of  honor  for  duty  as  a moral  stan- 
dard has,  generally,  one  immense  advantage  which,  as  the 
most  superficial  acquaintance  with  them  discloses,  the 
French  unquestionably  enjoy.  Honor’s  dictates  are  plain. 
Those  of  duty  are  often  obscure.  Society  knows  what  it 
esteems  and  what  it  despises.  Conscience  is  often  con- 
fused, often  in  need  now  of  enlightenment  now  of  quick- 
ening. The  result  is  that  in  the  moral  sphere  the  French 
escape  that  vacillation  so  characteristic  of  ourselves.  All 
is  plain-sailing  before  them;  their  chart  is  distinct  and 
they  mean  to  follow  it.  Morally  speaking  we  illustrate 
Mr.  Lincoln’s  caution,  on  the  other  hand,  and  never 
“ cross  Fox  River  before  we  come  to  it.”  The  difference 
is  that  between  a written  and  unwritten  political  constitu- 
tion; we  have  an  immense  amount  of  common-law  moral- 
ity, so  to  speak.  Many  of  our  conscientious  people  do 
things  which  other  conscientious  persons  would  not  do; 
the  largest  publisher  of  one  of  our  cities  publishes  Zola 
for  all  America;  the  largest  bookseller  of  the  same  city 
will  not  vend  Zola;  yet  he,  again,  sells  freely  the  “ Me- 
moirs of  Cora  Pearl.”  You  feel  that  we  cannot  all  of  us 
be  hitting  the  mark.  Many  of  us  do  things  at  one  mo- 
ment that  we  would  not  at  another;  many  of  us  justify  in 
ourselves  to-day  conduct  of  which  yesterday  we  disap- 
proved. Our  standard  wavers  because  it  is  upheld  by  a 
grace  that  is  intermittent.  The  conscience,  finding  itself 
deceived  by  some  false  alarm,  relaxes  its  vigilance  in  some 
parallel  instance  with  unhappy  results.  Our  temptations 
vary.  Our  moral  life  becomes  a struggle,  in  comparison 
with  which  the  Frenchman’s  is  serene.  We  may  say,  I 
think,  that  the  prayer  “lead  us  not  into  temptation”  is 


40 


French  Traits 


rarely  on  his  lips  or  in  his  heart.  His  attitude  toward 
temptation  is  not  one  of  timorousness.  He  believes  rather 
with  La  Bruyere  that  “everything  is  temptation  to  him 
who  fears  temptation.’’  He  does  not  seek  to  fortify  him- 
self against  it  by  acquiring  the  habit  of  self-denial.  He 
does  not  contemplate  the  notion  of  yielding  in  spite  of 
himself,  of  being  assailed  by  the  tempter  in  an  unguarded 
moment,  of  the  necessity  of  always  having  one’s  armor  on. 
Neither  does  he  comprehend  the  relaxation  and  relief  all 
of  us  know  so  well  of  those  moments  during  which  we  put 
this  armor  off  for  the  nonce,  when  we  are  sure  temptation 
cannot  assail  us;  nor  our  occasional  excesses  when  we  find 
ourselves  in  error  as  to  this  security.  Discipline  in  this 
direction  he  does  not  practise.  He  substitutes  philosophy 
for  it.  His  philosophy  may  now  and  then  be  stoic,  but  it 
is  not  ascetic.  He  does  not  strive  to  obey  his  higher  and 
control  his  lower  nature.  He  appears,  in  fact,  to  have  no 
higher  nature — and  no  lower;  to  have,  morally  speak- 
ing, a nature  that  is  simple  and  single. 

The  result  is  twofold.  He  yields  to  temptation  more  fre- 
quently and  more  easily,  but  his  yielding  is  of  far  less  con- 
sequence. He  does  not  suffer  the  abasement  involved  in 
“sinning  against  light,”  as  the  phrase  is.  His  taking 
temptation  so  lightly  as  he  does  prevents  his  attaching  the 
same  value  to  a surrender  to  it  that  we  do;  his  fall  is  spe- 
cific, temporary,  and  trivial,  so  to  speak,  and  does  not 
have  the  general  lowering  effect  on  the  whole  nature 
which  succumbing  after  a resistance  in  which  the  whole 
nature  has  been  intensely  interested  does  not  fail  to  have. 
It  does  not  leave  the  same  scar.  The  man  is  morally  on 
his  feet  again  much  sooner.  Often,  indeed,  he  has  not 
fallen  at  all,  only  tripped.  Society  in  consequence  takes 
moral  errors  much  more  lightly  than  it  does  with  us,  as 


Morality 


4i 


those  who  have  not  observed  it  in  French  life  cannot  have 
escaped  noticing  in  French  literature.  That  favorite  inci- 
dent in  modern  romance  round  which  the  story  of  “ Adam 
Bede”  centres,  for  example,  is  (minus  the  infanticide,  of 
course,  which  would  be  foreign  to  either)  in  French  litera- 
ture and  French  life  almost  never  taken  grimly,  but 
gently,  not  tragically  but  simply,  not  as  a monstrous  but 
as  a natural  error;  in  fine,  it  is  still  in  France  considered 
as  remediable  as  it  was  in  Galilee  ‘‘twenty  ages  since.” 
Similarly  with  other  yieldings  to  temptation.  The  main 
consideration  is  to  have  the  heart  right;  until  that  is  cor- 
rupt nothing  occurs  which  can  be  called  irreparable;  that 
is  the  French  feeling.  And  it  is  a wonderful  simplifier. 
Moral  complexity  beyond  a certain  point,  the  point  at 
which  the  influence  of  jarring  interests  and  clashing  temp- 
tations ceases,  is  accepted  in  France  as  curiously  facti- 
tious. The  air  is  too  clear,  the  sky  too  bright.  George 
Eliot  could  never  have  written  there. 

On  the  other  hand,  an  impartial  observer  would  notice 
that  yielding  to  temptation  is  apt  to  be  pretty  strictly  pro- 
portioned to  the  strength  rather  of  the  temptation  than  of 
the  tempted.  When  this  presents  itself  in  attractive  form 
there  is  often  scarcely  a pretence  of  resistance.  In  fact, 
in  this  matter  of  resistance,  the  French  strike  us  as  having 
a certain  curious  helplessness,  born  doubtless  of  inexperi- 
ence. They  seem  like  the  militia  of  the  army  of  morality, 
not  its  regular  soldiers.  They  show  the  lack  of  drill — at 
least  in  skirmishes  and  reconnoissances  if  not  in  pitched 
battles  where  courage  and  general  intelligence  are  more 
serviceable.  As  to  these  it  will,  of  course,  be  understood 
that  I am  here  speaking  mainly  of  peccadilloes  and  not 
crimes;  of  those  offences  which  their  own  society  cordially 
condemns  Frenchmen  commit  as  few,  it  need  not  be  said, 


42 


French  Traits 


as  any  other  people.  But  I should  say,  for  example,  there 
were  vastly  more  white  lies  told  in  France  than  in  Amer- 
ica. There  is  a whimsical  felicity  in  the  circumstance 
that  the  scene  of  Charles  Reade’s  novel  of  that  name  is 
laid  there.  The  white  lie  is  tremendously  convenient,  and 
is,  I think,  destined  to  greater  popularity  with  us  than  it 
at  present  enjoys.  In  France  its  abolition  would  revolu- 
tionize society.  Society  there  owes  to  it  much  of  the 
smoothness  with  which  its  machinery  moves.  The  white 
lie  of  causing  yourself  to  be  declared  at  your  door  “ not 
at  home,”  it  does  not  require  a seared  conscience  to  com- 
mit even  among  ourselves.  We  say  it  is  mere  civility,  it 
prevents  friction,  and  it  deceives  no  one.  It  is  in  the 
same  tone  of  whiteness  as  certain  customary  forms  of  sign- 
ing letters.  The  same  principle  and  practice  are  merely 
carried  much  further  in  France.  They  are  carried,  to  be 
sure,  to  the  n + ith  power,  but  their  identity  is  not  lost. 
The  excess  is  chargeable  to  the  approbativeness  charac- 
teristic of  extreme  social  development.  Candor  and  cour- 
tesy, the  desire  to  please  and  perfect  openness,  are  mu- 
tually inimical.  French  approbativeness  is  hostile  to  that 
frankness  which  impels  the  truthful  Earl  of  Ellesmere,  for 
example,  to  notify  visitors  to  his  galleries  by  an  announce- 
ment, printed  at  the  head  of  his  catalogue,  that,  notwith- 
standing an  absurd  rumor  to  the  contrary,  he  is  not  legally 
obliged  to  have  them  there  at  all — that  frankness,  in  fact, 
which  makes  of  the  average  Englishman  everywhere  so 
concrete  a personality. 

The  result,  however,  is  a noticeable  difference  in  the 
relations  between  people.  A certain  scepticism  takes  the 
place  of  confidence.  A person  is  believed  in  trivial  state- 
ments just  in  so  far  as  he  is  obviously  disinterested  in 
making  them.  The  gobe-mouchc  abounds  ; a sense  of  the 


Morality 


43 


prevailing  scepticism  and  his  consequent  irresponsibility 
develop  him  rapidly.  No  subject  is  too  grave  to  secure 
immunity  from  him.  By  way  of  compensation  he  is  re- 
warded with  sympathetic  attention  or  artistic  interest  in- 
stead of  with  credence.  Much  the  same  views  and  gossip 
about  the  French  Republic  are  to  be  found  in  the  “ Fi- 
garo ” or  the  “ Gaulois,  ” and  in  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can papers,  but  the  latter  only  impose  upon  their  readers. 
In  private  a Frenchman  expects  his  neighbor  to  be  courte- 
ous, companionable,  sincere  in  essentials,  frank  and  open 
with  him,  but  he  does  not  expect  him  to  tell  him  the  exact 
truth  on  matters  of  no  moment  if  he  has  any  motive  for 
concealing  it.  The  truth  to  him  is  not  a fetich.  It  is  not 
only  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  times,  but  it  is  now  and  then 
to  be  perverted;  the  great  thing  is  to  have  sufficient  tact 
to  know  when,  and  sufficient  elasticity  to  do  it  with 
aplo?nb.  He  can  thus  venture  audacities  from  which  we 
are  debarred,  and  enjoy  an  immunity  from  impertinence 
to  which  we  are  strangers.  His  quick  wit  spares  him  the 
embarrassment  of  blushing  on  many  occasions,  and  his 
philosophy  saves  him  from  the  discomfort  of  remorse.  You 
quite  envy  him,  at  times,  for  the  moment,  but  you  are 
sure  to  end  by  preferring  your  own  way.  I shall  always 
recall  with  a certain  ridiculous  pang  a small,  unobtrusive, 
but  morally  brilliant  white  lie  once  told  me  by  a charm- 
ing Frenchwoman  with  the  sole  motive  of  sparing  my 
feelings.  But  to  have  betrayed  how  much  more  acutely 
they  were  piqued  by  the  discovery  that  I had  been  the 
victim  of  this  kind  of  considerateness  would  have  been  an 
immense  indiscretion. 

It  is  certainly  not  calumniating  the  French  to  affirm 
that  they  have  no  genius  for  renouncement.  Renounce- 
ment is  in  France,  for  the  most  part,  confined  to  the 


44 


French  Traits 


religious  orders.  It  is  opposed  to  the  French  ideal  of 
expansion.  He  that  taketh  a city  is  decidedly  more 
esteemed  than  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit — unless  the  ruling 
be  to  the  end  of  city-taking  or  some  such  specific  accom- 
plishment. His  success  or  failure  in  life  when  “ divine, 
everlasting  Night,  with  her  star-diadems,  with  her  silence 
and  her  veracities”  is  come,  is  measured  rather  by  the 
career  he  has  run  than  by  the  character  he  has  carved  for 
himself.  To  be  worthy  instead  of  to  have  been  fortunate, 
instead  of  to  have  hit  some  definite  mark  or  other,  is  to 
him  an  ambition  of  vague  significance;  it  is  not  an  aim  of 
the  social  instinct.  ‘‘Worthy  of  what?”  one’s  French 
friend  always  rejoins;  ‘‘of  eternal  life,  no  doubt:  c' est sub- 
til." Scott’s  dying  injunction  to  Lockhart  could  hardly 
be  translated  into  his  tongue,  without  the  risk  of  appear- 
ing insipid.  ” Est-ce  que  tous  les  honnetes  gens  ne  sont 
pas  good  alors  ? ” Certain  individualities,  with  us  com- 
paratively frequent,  whose  main  object  in  life  seems  to 
be  to  efface  themselves  most  completely  in  order  to  be  of 
service  to  others,  with  whom  the  proffer  of  those  ancil- 
lary attentions  so  exasperating  to  their  victims  is  relent- 
lessly systematic,  in  whose  eyes  one  can  perceive  the 
gleam  of  triumph  when  a coarse  nature  is  imposing  upon 
their  goodness — like  the  legendary  martyr’s  smile  of  beati- 
fication as  the  flames  mount  higher — this  kind  of  person 
is  unknown  in  the  three  parts  of  all  Gaul.  The  nearest 
French  analogue  is  a bonasse  person,  a person  weakly  ami- 
able by  disposition,  not  by  system,  a person  of  a radically 
different  moral  fibre  and  far  more  infrequent.  Self-sacri- 
fice to  the  general  end  of  spiritual  perfection,  which  how- 
ever little  it  may  be  practised  among  us  is  nevertheless  a 
principle  in  which  we  profoundly  believe,  and  which  affects 
profoundly  our  judgment  of  ourselves  and  others,  is  not  at 


Morality 


45 


all  so  esteemed  by  the  French.  They  have  no  instinctive 
confidence  in  its  salutariness.  They  believe  it,  on  the 
contrary,  misleading,  narrowing,  retarding  — a sort  of 
burial  of  one’s  talent  in  a napkin — unless  it  be  strictly 
presided  over  and  efficiently  directed  by  the  intelligence, 
by  tact,  by  the  sense  of  measure,  of  relative  importance. 

And  not  only  does  their  estimation  of  the  discipline  of 
character  differ  from  ours,  but  we  have  different  concep- 
tions of  character  itself,  of  what  constitutes  character.  We 
mean  by  character  integrity;  we  mean  what  the  New  York 
“ Sun  ” means  when  it  affirms  that  character  and  brains  are 
necessary  to  a newspaper’s  success.  In  France  tempera- 
ment, disposition,  is  what  is  meant.  When  we  say  of  such 
and  such  a man  that  he  has  a great  deal  of  character,  we 
generally  mean  that  he  has  disciplined  his  temperament,  his 
disposition,  into  strict  obedience  to  the  behests  of  duty ; that 
he  has  clear  and  peremptory  ideas  about  right  and  wrong; 
in  short,  we  think  of  his  honesty  rather  than  of  his  energy. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  his  energy,  his  will,  his  volonte ’ 
that  is  meant  when  the  Frenchman  attributes  du  caractlre 
to  a person.  Napoleon,  for  example,  was  a man  of  prodi- 
gious character  in  the  French  view,  and  making  “ his  way 
to  empire  over  broken  oaths  and  through  a sea  of  blood  ” 
only  the  more  clearly  illustrates  it.  In  fact  the  French 
and  ourselves  see  each  his  own  side  in  the  same  man. 
Michelet,  for  example,  speaks  of  Turgot’s  ferocite : Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold,  having  to  compare  Turgot  to  Butler  in 
just  this  respect,  says  he  should  rather  call  the  quality 
“ sceva  indignatio . ” Nothing  could  better  indicate  the  two 
points  of  view — the  scientific  and  impersonal,  and  the  moral 
and  sympathetic.  The  French  attitude  is  critical,  descrip- 
tive. M.  Scherer  calls  M.  Halevy  cruel.  M.  Taine  ap- 
plies the  same  epithet  to  Thackeray.  In  each  instance 


4 6 


French  Traits 


the  word  is  used,  wholly  without  reference  to  its  moral 
significance,  to  characterize  the  fidelity  with  which  base- 
ness is  portrayed.  Bon , mtchant,  d'un  mauvais  caracftre 

a dozen  epithets  are  used  in  this  sense,  more  as  we  would 
apply  them  to  children  or  the  domestic  animals  than  to 
persons  supposedly  responsible  themselves  for  their  char- 
acters. Balzac’s  conception  of  Christianity,  which  he  ad- 
vocates with  naif  ardor,  is  of  a social  police  system.  On 
the  other  hand,  we  not  only  bring  everything  moral  at 
once  into  the  ethical  sphere,  but  we  are  apt  to  bring  ethics 
themselves  immediately  into  the  sphere  of  religion,  of 
emotion,  of  poetry — that  is  to  say,  our  consideration  of 
them  is  practically  as  far  as  possible  removed  from  the 
scientific. 

Where  a people  has  thus  the  virtues  not  of  discipline 
but  of  disposition,  it  at  least  partially  atones  for  some  of 
its  shortcomings  by  avoiding  the  defect  apparently  insep- 
arable from  that  personal  morality  which  sets  so  much 
store  by  character  as  we  conceive  it — the  defect  of  cant, 
of  hypocrisy.  The  French  disesteem  for  cant  is  as  great 
as  is  ours  for  falsehood.  Courage,  candor,  lack  of  van- 
ity, egotism,  contemptuousness,  are  all  characteristics 
favorable  to  truthfulness,  but  they  are  t he  natural  prey  of 
hypocrisy.  The  constant  danger  of  attaching  extraordi- 
nary value  to  character,  to  conscientiousness,  is  the  dan- 
ger of  misconceiving  one’s  own.  Innate  optimism  and 
self-respect  contribute  powerfully  to  prevent  us  from 
actual  realization  in  many  instances  and  on  many  occa- 
sions. Only  rarely,  for  example,  does  such  a journal  as 
the  conservative  London  “Morning  Post’’  avow  that 
“there  is  more  licentious  effrontery  in  a single  London 
thoroughfare  than  in  the  whole  of  Paris.”  What  you  are 
most  anxious  not  to  do  you  are  extremely  slow  to  admit, 


Morality 


4 1 


even  to  yourself,  that  you  have  actually  done.  French 
cafardise  is  quite  a different  trait  from  cant.  It  is  hypoc- 
risy of  a gross,  colossal  order  that  never  takes  in  any  one, 
least  of  all  that  inevitable  victim  of  cant,  the  hypocrite 
himself.  The  tribe  of  Tartuffe  is  almost  professional  in 
its  cafardise , which  is,  like  the  false  humility  of  the  He- 
brew of  literature,  a special,  a cultivated,  not  an  integral 
and  general  quality.  The  French  frankness  in  intimacy 
about  falsehood  of  the  “ harmless  ” sort  seems  to  us  cyni- 
cal only  because  we  forget  they  have  no  cant.  They  are 
astonishingly  sincere,  amazingly  unpretending,  in  point  of 
character.  The  Orleanist’s  jeer  at  the  Bonapartes,  con- 
veyed in  the  boast  that  of  the  family  he  served  “all  the 
men  were  brave  and  all  the  women  virtuous,”  was  taken 
as  a mot  rather  than  as  an  affront — a mot  plein  d' esprit,  et 
plein  de  malice , nothing  to  make  any  one’s  blood  boil  ex- 
cept that  of  Plon-Plon,  which  was  abnormally  cool.  How 
many  of  us  are  in  the  habit  of  protesting,  as  the  French 
continually  do,  that  we  are  no  better  nor  worse  than  our 
fellows?  Are  not  the  worst  of  us  apt  to  cherish  a faint 
hope  that  we  are  a trifle  better  than  the  average,  not  to  say 
the  majority — have  a little  finer  feeling,  a little  more  scru- 
pulousness, or  if  not  that,  at  any  rate  a little  less  Pharisa- 
ism? And  these  psychological  convolutions,  his  frankness 
with  himself  and  with  others,  spares  the  Frenchman.  In 
crises  which  really  touch  him  he  shows  a great  deal  of 
self-abnegation;  generosity,  charity,  are  French  virtues. 
If  he  does  not  willingly  “ lose”  his  life,  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  his  ideal  is  to  sell  it  as  dearly  as  possible,  he  at 
least  sells  it.  And  he  sells  it  without  any  pretence,  with- 
out any  braggart  sentimentality  and  self-deception,  but 
with  an  intellectual  and  often  even  an  artistic  conscious- 
ness of  what  he  is  doing  that  is  almost  as  refreshing  to  the 


48 


French  Traits 


moral  sense  as  it  is  to  the  intelligence.  The  soul  may 
remain  unsatisfied;  but  his  social,  business,  and  public 
virtues  may  well,  in  his  esteem,  be  set  over  against  our 
private  ones. 

Lack  of  personal  discipline,  however,  means  yielding  to 
one’s  instincts,  whether  one  mean  by  this  being  in  har- 
mony with  nature  or  really  running  counter  to  her  stead- 
fast undertakings.  The  first  and  finest  of  our  instincts, 
setting  aside  the  supernatural,  is  undoubtedly  love,  and  it 
is  in  his  abandonment  to  this  instinct  that  the  Frenchman 
is  usually  believed  by  us  to  be  less  successful  in  morality 
than  elsewhere.  Certainly  more  distinctly  and  universally 
than  anywhere  else  is  it  felt  in  France  that  love  vincit 
omnia — that  it  is,  as  Thackeray  affirms,  “ immeasurably 
above  ambition,  more  precious  than  wealth,  more  noble 
than  name,”  and  that  “ he  knows  not  life  who  knows  not 
that.”  I say  this  feeling  is  more  distinct  and  universal  in 
France  than  among  us,  because  there  love  not  only  con- 
quers all  things  but  one  may  almost  say  excuses  every- 
thing. It  is  the  passion  of  youth  and  eld,  men  and 
women.  The  young  girl  looks  forward  to  an  experience 
of  its  divine  grace  with  an  emotion  excited  in  the  breast 
of  her  American  sister  only  by  the  supernatural.  Of  all 
the  activities  of  his  prime  the  old  man  regrets  most  the 
abandonment,  the  enthusiasm,  the  absence  of  calculation, 
the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  least  egoistic  of  human  im- 
pulses. Never  to  have  made  the  voyage  to  Cythera  is  to 
have  lived  in  vain.  ” Love  is  a thing  too  young  to  know 
what  conscience  is,”  says  Shakespeare,  and  the  sacrifices 
made  to  avoid  thus  missing  the  end  of  one’s  emotional 
existence  are  often  very  great;  sometimes  they  are  gro- 
tesque; now  and  then  they  are  tragic  to  the  last  degree, 
and  the  misery  and  demoralization  resulting  from  mistak- 


Mo?'ality 


49 


ing  the  factitious  for  the  genuine  in  this  momentous  mat- 
ter colder  temperaments  may  well  congratulate  themselves 
upon  avoiding.  But  these  mistakes  are  often  the  defects 
of  a generous  ideality,  and  we  are  prone  to  exaggerate 
their  number  and  gravity;  the  nature  that  passes  its  life 
in  resisting  temptation  is  indisposed  to  judge  fairly  those 
who  evade  the  struggle.  We  keep  forgetting  that  our 
manners  are  different  from  French  manners,  and  our  nat- 
ures constitutionally  unlike.  The  French  ideal  is  not  that 
of  St.  Francis,  of  Thoreau.  Mr.  Arnold  cites  Paley  to 
show  how  especially  and  organically  corrupting  is  any 
swerving  from  Hippolytan  pudicity.  Undoubtedly  for  all 
dispositions  to  whom  Paley  is  a sympathetic  moralist. 
But  the  whole  problem  is  different  in  the  country  of 
Stendhal,  who  finds  in  Paley  the  last  refuge  of  moral  and 
intellectual  mediocrity.  Sainte-Beuve,  of  whom  Mr.  Ar- 
nold never  spoke  without  something  akin  to  reverence,  for 
example,  says  quite  frankly  of  himself,  when  his  integrity 
was  attacked — like  Hamilton’s — : “ J’ai  mes  faiblesses. 
J’ai  pu  regretter  sentir  quelquefois  que  j’y  eteignais  ma 
damme,  mais  jamais  je  n’y  ai  perverti  mon  coeur.”  A 
society  which  substitutes  personal,  or  at  most  domestic, 
for  social  virtues,  where  women  are  free  from  pursuit  be- 
cause men  are  indifferent,  whose  manners  permit  flirtation 
and  prohibit  gallantry,  whose  only  demi-monde  is  a dissi- 
pated and  defiant  bachelordom,  runs  far  more  risk  of  per- 
version if  it  allows  itself  any  relaxation  in  this  regard  than 
a society  like  that  of  France,  whose  qualities  tend  to  hu- 
manize everything  short  of  vice  itself.  What  would  be 
vice  among  us  remains  in  France  social  irregularity  in- 
duced by  sentiment.  The  distinction  is,  I think,  the  most 
important  of  all  that  can  be  observed  in  any  judgment  of 
France  by  Americans.  The  irregularity  may  be  very 
4 


French  Traits 


5° 

great  and  the  sentiment  very  dilute,  but  between  these 
and  such  vice  as  social  irregularity  of  the  kind  generally 
means  with  us  the  distance  is  very  great  and  the  distinc- 
tion very  radical.  To  avoid  misjudgments  in  this  matter, 
to  avoid  talking  of  the  French  being  “given  over  to  the 
worship  of  their  Goddess  Lubricity,”  for  instance,  it  is 
necessary  constantly  to  remind  one’s  self  of  this.  When 
Madame  de  Chevreuse  complains  of  Anne  of  Austria’s 
austerity,  and  says  she  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to 
awaken  in  her  some  taste  for  the  glory  of  being  loved, 
when  La  Rochefoucauld  affirms  that  “ there  are  few  hon- 
est women  who  are  not  sick  of  their  trade,”  when  M. 
Sarcey  exclaims  that  the  rejection  of  a suitor  because  he 
has  had  a mistress  is  a solecism,  when  Mr.  Henry  James 
recounts  the  tavern  raillery  of  a Languedoc  dinner-table, 
speculating  in  the  presence  of  the  blushing  and  good-nat- 
ured servant  herself  as  to  whether  or  no  she  is  sage,  when, 
in  short,  either  in  French  books  or  French  life  one  en- 
counters suggestion  of  the  sensual  triumph  over  correct- 
ness, it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  error  has  almost 
always  an  element  of  ideality.  As  to  actual  and  recog- 
nized vice,  international  comparisons  are  very  sterile  as 
well  as  very  odious. 

Institutions  have  nowhere  more  influence  than  in  France, 
and,  given  the  French  belief  in  the  divine  instinct  of  love, 
the  lengths  to  which  it  may  lead  are  easily  seen  to  depend 
much  upon  marriage  and  divorce  laws.  We  at  all  events 
find  no  difficulty,  in  self-reproachful  moments,  in  admit- 
ting the  important  influence  of  divorce  upon  national 
morals.  Marriage  being  what  it  is,  monogamy  being  so 
eminent  a witness  of  the  race’s  development  and  such  an 
integral  part  of  its  highest  attainment,  the  compromise  in 
this  respect  of  any  society’s  ideal  is  easily  seen  to  be  inex- 


Morality 


5 


pressibly  vulgarizing.  Easy  divorce,  at  any  rate,  is  ex- 
press and  legalized  abandonment  of  one  of  the  most  pre- 
cious conquests  we  have  won  from  original  anarchy.  But 
I think  our  recognition  of  this,  emphasized  a posteriori  as 
with  us  such  recognition  is,  prevents  us  from  conceiving 
readily  the  enormous  effect  which  the  complete  absence  of 
divorce  has  upon  a Catholic  society.  A Catholic  society 
is,  as  I have  already  said,  far  less  self-concentrated,  far 
more  expansive  and  natural  than  a Protestant,  and  yet  in 
regard  to  one  of  the  most  artificial  of  institutions — which 
in  the  sense  of  later  development  monogamy  certainly  is — 
it  permits  no  elasticity  whatever.  Be  the  tension  never  so 
great  it  is  never  formally  recognized.  The  result  is  inev- 
itably that  informally  its  rupture  is  too  readily  excused. 
It  is,  to  be  sure,  possible  to  say  to  a Frenchman,  who  ob- 
jects that  he  only  does  illegally  what,  were  he  an  Ameri- 
can, he  would  have  abundant  warrant  of  law  for,  and  what 
neither  the  church  nor  the  world  would  reprove  in  him, 
that  offences  against  pure  legality,  unjustified  by  the  com- 
pulsion of  a higher  law,  are  sin;  that  if  he  does  not  in- 
stinctively feel  this  reflection  will  prove  it  to  him,  and 
that  his  worthiness,  not  his  happiness,  is  the  important 
matter  for  him  and  his  people.  You  may  even  add  com- 
miseration at  his  misfortune  in  not  being  an  American,  so 
that  he  might  be  happy  and  worthy  at  the  same  time.  He 
will  be  certain  to  esteem  you  a pedant.  And,  in  fact,  be- 
tween easy  divorce  and  no  divorce  there  is  not,  morally 
speaking,  anything  like  the  abyss  that  closet  philosophy 
is  apt  to  imagine.  In  the  effect  upon  society  at  large 
there  is  far  more  difference  between  strict  divorce  and 
either.  The  conversion  of  the  Jews,  according  to  Launce- 
lot  Gobbo,  merely  increased  the  number  of  pork-eaters, 
and,  speaking  practically  and  prosaically,  the  effect  of 


52 


French  Traits 


exchanging  easy  divorce  for  no  divorce  at  all,  would  be 
mainly,  I imagine,  to  increase  the  number  of  natural  chil- 
dren; whereas  it  is  highly  probable  that  the  recent  re- 
enactment of  divorce  in  France  will  ere  long  be  found  to 
have  produced  a salutary  disturbance  in  the  vital  statistics 
of  the  country.  If  this  and  certain  corollaries  of  the 
proposition  which  will  occur  to  every  one  more  readily 
than  they  can  be  expressed  be  true,  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand how  marriage — erected  by  the  church  into  a sacra- 
ment, and  yet  frequently  found  to  be  actually  intolerable 
— has  hitherto,  in  France,  found  less  virtual  and  sincere 
acquiescence  in  its  sacred  character  than  elsewhere.  For- 
mal respect  for  it  abounds.  Nothing  is  more  shocking  to 
a Frenchman  than  the  records  of  our  divorce  cases.  And 
yet  it  is  as  a convention  simply  that  indissoluble  marriage 
imposes  itself  on  his  respect,  because  its  sanction  is  exter- 
nal, ecclesiastical,  and  legal,  and  not  spiritual  and  natu- 
ral. He  has  accordingly  the  less  care  for  the  fidelity 
which  elsewhere  is  inextricably  associated  with  it  in  the- 
ory. It  would  hardly  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  for 
this  fidelity  he  cares,  absolutely  speaking,  nothing  at  all. 
He  excuses  himself,  or  rather  he  explains  his  position,  by  a 
reference  to  nature.  The  great  thing  is  to  be  in  harmony 
with  nature,  he  thinks.  In  all  these  matters  he  takes  very 
little  account  of  what  Goethe  calls  culture-conquests  ex- 
cept as  social  institutions,  decorous  conventions.  Fickle- 
ness in  women  he  admits  as  a defect,  venial  or  not  as  the 
heart  happens  to  be  interested,  but  as  much  less  natural 
than  the  same  trait  in  man  as  polyandry  is  less  usual  than 
polygamy.  As  to  man,  the  universal  French  feeling  is 
very  well  expressed  by  Mr.  Howells  in  an  obiter  dictum  of 
his  “ Indian  Summer.”  In  Mr.  Howells’  public  it  is  al- 
ways place  aux  dames.  He  has  so  completely  won  the 


Morality 


53 


affection  of  his  women  readers  by  betraying  women’s 
secrets  that  he  is  now  and  then  emboldened  to  brave  their 
indignation  by  divulging  a secret  of  the  opposite  sex,  as 
he  does  in  this  paragraph  wherein  he  represents  his  hero, 
who  is  in  love  with  two  women  at  the  same  time,  as 
“ struggling  stupidly  with  a confusion  of  desires  which 
every  man  but  no  woman  will  understand.”  ‘‘After 
eighteen  hundred  years,”  he  says,  ‘‘the  man  is  still  im- 
perfectly monogamous.”  That  strikes  us  all,  male  and 
female  alike,  as  the  quintessence  of  humor.  It  is  not  pre- 
cisely of  the  same  character  as  that  of  Tom  Jones,  a laugh 
from  whom,  says  Lamb,  “ clears  the  air,”  but  it  performs 
a similar  service.  Mr.  Howells  is  the  enfant  terrible  of 
realistic  fiction,  and  we  can  no  longer  go  on  pretending 
that  even  American  men  are  strangers  to  polygamous  in- 
stincts. But  as  an  American  humorist  once  remarked  of 
his  church-going  propensities,  they  “can  restrain  them- 
selves.” And  doubtless  until  we  have  our  Flaubert  or 
our  Fielding,  as  well  as  our  Howells,  we  shall  believe  that 
they  do,  just  as  even  after  that  distant  event  we  shall  con- 
tinue to  believe  that  they  should.  But  the  Frenchman 
replies  that  all  this  is  based  on  a Puritan  systematization 
of  St.  Paul’s  separation  of  the  law  of  the  members  and 
the  law  of  the  mind,  and  that  it  is  fantastic.  Only  in  an 
atmosphere  as  colorless  and  passionless  as  that  in  which 
the  characters  of  “ Indian  Summer,”  for  example,  move, 
he  maintains,  is  it  possible  to  carry  the  question  of  recti- 
tude into  the  region  over  which  the  heart  presides  alone. 
To  violate  the  heart’s  dictates,  which  are  the  direct  be- 
hests of  nature,  is,  in  his  eyes,  either  pedantry  or  folly;  at 
all  events,  an  esoteric  concern  of  monks  and  nuns.  It  is 
not  a question  at  all  of  a higher  law  and  the  law  of  the 
members,  but  of  the  natural  instincts  of  man,  which  on 


54 


French  Traits 


the  one  hand  he  is  to  preserve  from  that  depravity  univer- 
sally stigmatized  as  unnatural,  and  on  the  other  to  organ- 
ize in  such  a way  as  to  benefit  that  highly  artificial 
institution  known  as  society  in  the  direction  of  natural 
development  and  not  natural  restraint. 

Hence,  plainly,  the  French  idea  of  marriage  as  an  insti- 
tution mainly  social.  It  becomes  a convention  like  an- 
other. If  it  be  combined  with  a love  whose  character 
guarantees  its  permanence — a flame  which  does  not,  unlike 
Campbell’s, 

“ . . need  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel  ” 

— so  much  the  better.  But  love  is  one  thing  and  marriage 
another.  This  being  distinctly  understood  it  will  at  once 
be  perceived  that  the  stronger  a people’s  instincts  for 
social  order  the  more  disposition  there  is  to  make  mar- 
riage indissoluble.  If  marriage  is  understood  by  an  entire 
society  not  to  be  a contrivance  to  “ bind  love  to  last  for- 
ever,” the  principal  objection  to  binding  marriage  to  last 
forever  disappears.  Every  instinct  of  form,  of  propriety, 
of  regularity,  every  instinct  which  shrinks  from  social  dis- 
turbance counsels  the  permanence  of  marriage,  which  thus 
becomes  purely  an  affair  of  reason.  Family  relations, 
property  interests,  children’s  future,  the  organic  solidarity 
of  communities  are  in  this  way  distinctly  served.  It  is 
personal  morality  which  suffers,  because  society  is  imme- 
diately adjusted  to  the  notion  that  marriage  is  a convention 
merely,  and  that  offences  against  marriage  appeal  to  the 
tribunals  of  manners  rather  than  of  morals.  And  not  only 
does  morality  suffer,  but  marriage  unquestionably  tends  to 
become  materialized.  The  two  things  interact  with  mu- 
tual intensity — marriage  is  made  material  by  being  indis- 
soluble, and  it  is  the  material  conception  of  marriage  as  a 


Morality 


55 


social  convention  which  renders  its  indissolubility  attract- 
ive. Thus  we  have  both  the  effect  of  no  divorce  and  the 
explanation  of  it. 

I think,  therefore,  the  recent  re-enactment  of  divorce 
by  the  French  democracy,  hedged  about  as  it  is  with  pre- 
caution against  abuse,  cannot  fail  to  have  a salutary  effect 
on  the  personal  morality  of  the  community,  and  that  it 
will  also  tend  to  spiritualize  the  community’s  conception 
of  marriage.  There  will  be  more  marriages,  and  they 
will  be  less  an  affair  of  reason  and  more  an  affair  of  the 
heart.  This  will  be  the  effect,  because  in  taking  an 
irreparable  step,  however  an  Anglo-Saxon  may  prefer  the 
guidance  of  his  instincts  and  affections,  the  Frenchman 
prefers  to  be  directed  by  his  intelligence.  And  though  no 
one  probably  thinks  of  divorce  potentialities  on  his  wed- 
ding-day, the  permanence  or  dissolubility  of  the  contract 
undoubtedly  makes  a great  difference  in  the  bachelor’s 
chronic  and  constitutional  attitude  toward  marriage.  One 
has  only  to  regard  the  two  extremes  presented  by  some  of 
our  communities  and  a Catholic  one  in  this  respect.  In 
Southern  Europe  man  is  notoriously  reluctant  to  “ sur- 
render his  liberty;”  in  some  of  our  communities  he  can 
hardly  wait  to  become  of  age  before  he  crystallizes  some 
passing  fancy  into  matrimony. 

On  the  whole,  marriage,  divorce,  and  cognate  questions 
aside,  to  find  the  French  lacking  in  moral  sense  is,  I think, 
to  betray  confusion.  The  French  themselves,  accus- 
tomed as  they  are  to  such  a verdict  at  our  hands,  always 
ascribe  it  either  to  prejudice  of  a particularly  unintelligent 
kind  or  else  to  hypocrisy.  “ The  English,”  says  a recent 
reviewer  of  George  Eliot’s  life  in  the  “ Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,”  “are  no  better  than  other  people,  but  they 
have  a singular  desire  tg  appear  so,”  The  French,  gen- 


56 


French  Traits 


erally,  would  accept  this  as  a temperate  expression  of 
their  feeling  that  any  arrogation  of  superior  morality  on 
the  part  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  is  unjustified.  We  under- 
stand morality  in  many  different  ways.  Some  of  our  most 
conspicuously  moral  people  believe  indeed  that  it  is  a 
rational  substitute  for  religion.  A less  frigid  school  finds 
it  impossible  to  conceive  of  true  morality  except  as  a re- 
ligious result.  Except  that  the  former  of  these  profess 
the  utilitarian  ideal  and  permit  themselves  little  emotion, 
save  of  a severely  ethical  kind,  whereas  the  Frenchman 
has  his  susceptibility  in  constant  exercise  though  under 
perfect  control — except,  in  other  words,  that  sceptical 
Puritanism  is  sui  generis , and  can  ill  be  said  to  have  rela- 
tions to  anything  Latin — the  French  view  of  morality,  the 
Latin  view,  may  be  said  to  stand  midway  between  these 
two.  French  morality  is  morality  in  the  etymological 
sense.  But  because  the  standard  is  exterior  rather  than 
of  conscience,  because,  as  I have  already  said,  the  idea  of 
honor  to  a very  considerable  degree  takes  the  place  of  the 
idea  of  duty  among  Frenchmen,  because  what  is  therefore 
venial  with  them  is  sometimes  grave  with  us  and  vice  versd, 
it  by  no  means  follows  that  the  French  notion  of  what  is 
right  and  what  is  wrong  is  any  the  less  strict,  precise,  and 
universally  binding  than  our  own.  And  so  far  as  the  ac- 
cord between  theory  and  practice  is  concerned  I suppose 
it  is  needless  to  point  out  the  perfection  which  has  been 
attained  in  France  in  the  sphere  of  morals  as  well  as 
everywhere  else.  In  the  sense  in  which  it  has  been  aptly 
observed  that  “ Coleridge  had  no  morals,”  French  moral- 
ity is  a conspicuous  national  characteristic. 

No,  French  morality  is  simply  misconceived  when  it  is 
summarily  depreciated  as  it  is  our  vice  to  depreciate  it. 
It  is  as  systematic  as  our  own,  and  by  those  most  inter- 


Morality 


57 


ested  believed  to  be  as  successful;  it  is  in  France  that  life 
is  longest  and  happiness  greatest,  and  well-being  most 
widely  diffused.  The  great  distinction  between  us,  the 
chief  characteristic  which  in  this  sphere  sets  off  the 
Frenchman  from  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  from  the  Spaniard 
also,  and  the  Italian,  over  whom  he  triumphs  morally, 
perhaps,  is  his  irreligiousness.  I refer  of  course  to  the 
mass  of  the  nation,  not  to  the  few  who  are  absorbed  by 
devotion,  which  is  religion  intensified.  To-day,  at  all 
events,  the  great  body  of  the  French  people  is  Voltairian. 
A better  epithet  could  not  be  found  for  irreligious  moral- 
ity. “To  Voltaire,”  says  Mr.  John  Morley,  very  felici- 
tously, “reason  and  humanity  were  but  a single  word, 
and  love  of  truth  and  passion  for  justice  but  one  emo- 
tion.” Yet  as  Emerson  observes:  “ He  said  of  the  good 
Jesus  even,  ‘ I pray  you  never  let  me  hear  that  man’s 
name  again  ’ ” — formidable  utterance,  however  interpreted 
or  explained,  for  disclosing  a lack  of  the  religious  sense. 

Nevertheless  he  has  read  to  little  purpose  the  greatest 
humanist  of  the  century  of  Kant,  of  Hume,  and  of  Rous- 
seau, who  does  not  perceive  the  positive  force  of  Voltaire 
as  a moralist.  The  undercurrent,  or  rather  the  substance 
of  all  that  infinite  wit  which  nearly  every  English  critic  of 
Voltaire  warns  us  to  be  on  our  guard  against,  is  moral 
earnestness,  and  that  he  should  have  been  mistaken  for  a 
literary  artist  would  have  exasperated  him  as  much  as  a 
similar  popular  error  grieved  the  prophet  Ezekiel.  His 
word  to  his  fellow-men  is  this:  “ Do  not  make  the  mis- 
take of  thinking  life  is  all  of  a piece  or  men  either.  The 
world  is  larger  than  your  philosophy.  God  is  inscrutable 
but  infinitely  kind  and  good.  Sin  is  either  stupidity  or 
else  a metaphysical  invention.  Truth  is  better  than  the 
fairest  seeming  falsehood,  and  the  fanaticism  which  lurks 


French  Traits 


58 


in  propagandism  of  all  sorts  is  fatal  to  it.  Absolute  hap- 
piness is  an  abstraction.  The  exaltation  which  pretends 
to  its  possession  is  either  empty  or  hypocritical.  Be  con- 
tent not  to  be  happy,  or  at  least  be  happy  in  missing  bliss. 
Be  cheerful,  be  clairvoyant,  be  kind  and  good;  avoid 
pedantry  even  in  renouncement,  be  simple,  and  above  all 
things  remember  il  fautcultiver  tiotre  jar  din."  The  lack 

of  such  philosophy  is  plainly  spirituality;  its  virtue  is 
clearly  good  sense.  It  is  not  the  predominance  of  the 
mind  over  the  heart  that  it  teaches,  but  of  both  over 
the  soul.  Of  the  two  commandments  whereon  “ hang  all 
the  law  and  the  prophets,”  it  forgets  the  first  in  its  devo- 
tion to  the  second.  The  two  are  indeed  ” like  unto  ” each 
other,  and  have  inextricable  mutual  relations.  But  as  the 
second  is,  except  abstractly,  not  so  inevitable  a corollary 
of  the  first  as  to  render  its  statement  needless,  so  it  is 
plain  that  one’s  duty  toward  one’s  neighbor  may  in  prac- 
tice be  very  sufficiently  performed  under  the  sanctions  of 
asocial  morality  which  is  nevertheless  unillumined  by  that 
personal  spiritual  experience  and  uncrowned  by  that  “in- 
ward glory  ” particular  to  the  performance  of  one’s  duty 
toward  God — particular,  that  is  to  say,  to  religion.  It  is 
the  personal  insufficiency  of  his  philosophy  that  is  respon- 
sible for  those  weaknesses  which  make  M.  Scherer  call 
Voltaire  “a  pitiful  character.”  Voltaire,  at  all  events, 
could  not  dispense  with  religion. 

In  fine,  the  French  have  not  the  religious  temperament, 
as  they  have  not  the  analogous  poetical  or  sentimental 
temperament.  The  moment  one  removes  from  religion  the 
theological  element  one  perceives  how  differently  differ- 
ently constituted  souls  may  be  affected  by  it;  how,  instead 
of  varying  like  morality  with  energy  of  character,  it  varies 
with  temperament;  how  some  natures  are  perpetually  feel- 


Morality 


59 


ing  after  and  finding  its  supreme  consolations,  and  how 
others  are  infinitely  less  satisfied  by  these.  In  general,  I 
think  the  French  temperament  fails  to  vibrate  responsively 
to  them.  There  is  something  Socratic  and  self-sustaining 
about  it  which  demands  the  adjustment  of  life  to  health 
and  activity,  and  resents  the  prominence  of  solace  and 
healing  in  an  ideal  that  contemplates  the  drawing  nigh  of 
evil  days.  As  Carlyle  said  of  Socrates,  indeed,  the  French 
temperament  is  “ terribly  at  ease  in  Zion.”  Its  ideal  is 
the  Epicurean  ideal.  Aristotle  is  its  moralist,  not  St.  Paul 
— Aristotle  asserting,  as  exposited  by  Condorcet,  that 
“ every  virtue  is  one  of  our  natural  inclinations  which  rea- 
son forbids  us  both  to  resist  too  much  and  to  obey  too 
implicitly.”  All  Condorcet’s  ethics,  which  are  French 
ethics,  even  his  sympathetic  account  of  Epicureanism, 
which  he  finds  least  distant  from  the  truth,  are  vitiated  for 
us  by  our  profound  conviction  that  the  maxim,  “ he  that 
loveth  his  life  shall  lose  it,”  is  as  empirically  sound  as  it 
is  mysterious.  But  that  is  religion,  and  Condorcet  and 
his  countrymen  concentrate  their  attention  in  this  sphere 
on  morality.  Instead  of  conquering  the  passions  they 
utilize  them.  Instead  of  resignation  they  seek  distrac- 
tion; and  they  have  so  ordered  life  that  such  distraction 
as  with  our  self-centred  individualism  we  do  not  dream  of, 
is  within  their  easy  reach. 

The  gayety  we  too  often  associate  with  levity  of  char- 
acter is,  as  the  French  illustrate  it,  a necessity  of  mental 
health  and  a kind  of  goodness.  By  no  means  is  it  a mere 
yielding  to  sensation,  which  is  the  beginning  of  dissipa- 
tion; but  there  is  about  it  something  of  tension.  To  be 
gay  a man  must  live  well,  must  order  his  life  aright.  In 
many  cases  there  is  a real  dissipation  in  not  seeking  the 
means  of  gayety,  in  letting  the  whole  physical  system  lose 


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French  Traits 


tone  for  lack  of  the  tension  which  gayety  imparts.  The 
leading  motive  of  Pere  La  Chaise  has  a distinct  note  of 
gayety  in  it.  “ Man  is  a sporting  as  well  as  a praying 
animal,”  says  Dr.  Holmes.  And,  growing  old,  M.  Renan 
regrets  that  in  his  youth  he  did  not  play  enough;  which, 
to  be  sure,  the  “St.  James’s  Gazette”  takes  to  mean 
regret  for  “the  serious  occupations  of  the  cafe,  the  fen- 
cing-school, the  navigation  of  the  silvery  Seine  on  Sunday 
beneath  beauty’s  favorite  smile,  and  the  other  occupations 
of  brisk  Parisian  adolescence.”  But  every  one  hasn’t  the 
cockney  idea  of  leisure,  of  gayety,  of  every  state  which  is 
not  the  only  original  Carlylean  antidote  for  human  misery. 
You  see  what  Satan  would  find  for  the  editor  of  the  ” St. 
James’s  Gazette”  to  do  in  case  of  idleness,  but  this  does 
not  imply  that  M.  Renan  means  debauch,  or  that  French 
gayety  implies  it.  If  the  French  are  deficient  in  spiritual- 
ity and  conceive  spiritual  things  materially,  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  they  look  at  material  things  in  an  extremely 
spiritual  way.  The  result  is  a pervasive  vivacity,  a sus- 
tained blitheness,  whose  high  key  is  preserved  with  the 
same  delightful  ease  that  one  observes  in  a painting  by 
Fortuny;  the  local  color  may  have  less  richness,  less  vari- 
ety, but  the  picture  is  more  effective;  the  individual  may 
“ wither,”  but  the  world  is  indisputably  more  and  more — 
more  and  more  important,  more  and  more  worthy.  And 
this  ensemble  cannot  be  obtained  by  frivolous  means.  ” II 
faut  souffrir  pour  voir  la  com^die,”  says  Doudan.  The 
French  are  ready  to  make  any  sacrifices  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  utmost  attainable.  Occasionally  these  sacrifices  have 
been  of  the  substance  in  grasping  at  the  shadow.  Occa- 
sionally French  good  sense  has  been  at  fault.  During  the 
Second  Empire,  whose  army  imposed  one  side  of  Paris  on 
France  entire,  the  French  ideal  of  the  development  of  the 


Morality 


61 


entire  man,  under  liberal  but  decorous  moeurs , was  here 
and  there  lost  in  the  “ocean  of  excess.”  The  present 
generation  shows  marks  of  this  enervation,  but  the  recov- 
ery of  moral  tonicity  after  the  Napoleonic  debauch  is  most 
noteworthy  and  most  conspicuous.  The  rejection  of  the 
Reformation  is  a still  more  signal  instance  of  wrong 
choosing  in  a great  crisis.  We  repeat  after  Michelet,  that 
France  rejected  the  Reformation  because  “she  would 
have  no  moral  reform;”  and  we  do  not  enough  remember 
the  political  necessities  of  Francis  I.  and  Catharine  de’ 
Medici,  and  the  French  origin  of  the  pollen  that  fructified 
the  soil  out  of  which  sprang  Huss  and  Wyckliffe.  But  by 
France,  in  this  instance,  we  really  mean,  though  we  are 
perpetually  forgetting  it,  not  the  sound  heart  and  core  of 
the  nation,  but  a luxurious  and  elegant  aristocracy  in  the 
direct  current  of  Renaissance  laxity  and  expansion — such 
as  existed  in  Germany  no  more  in  Luther’s  time  than  in 
any  other.  Doubtless  with  an  ideal  of  personal  morality 
France,  even  then,  would  have  accepted  the  Reformation, 
but  she  is  so  solidaire  that  she  had  to  await  organic  and 
communal  agencies.  Republican  France,  that  is,  France 
genuine  and  articulate,  has,  however  irreligious,  never 
been  conspicuously  immoral. 

When  we  see  a people  whose  qualities  are  thus  national 
and  whose  defects  are  individual,  when  we  consider  that 
the  whole  is,  everywhere  but  in  mathematics,  something 
other  than  the  sum  of  ali  its  parts,  it  seems  singular  that 
the  distinction  I have  dwelt  on  between  social  and  per- 
sonal morality  should  be  so  constantly  lost  sight  of.  Los- 
ing  sight  of  it  is,  philosophically,  the  source  of  that  absurd 
misconception  of  French  morality  with  which  I began, 
and  to  lose  sight  of  it  both  schools  of  our  philosophy  are 
prone.  Let  me  refer  once  more  to  Condorcet — an  admira- 


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bly  representative  Frenchman.  “ Progress,”  in  Condorcet’s 
mind,  says  Mr.  John  Morley,  “ is  exclusively  produced  by 
improvement  in  intelligence” — progress  of  course  being 
taken  to  mean  progress  in  morality  as  well  as  in  enlighten- 
ment. Both  our  metaphysicians  and  our  utilitarians  deny 
this  theory.  To  the  former  nothing  seems  more  clearly 
self-evident,  or  more  clearly  verified  empirically,  than  the 
maxim  ” Education  cannot  make  men  moral.”  Morality  de- 
pends upon  the  will;  you  can  reach  the  springs  of  the  will 
only  through  the  heart.  Sanctification  is  therefore  scien- 
tific, as  well  as  religious,  doctrine.  Progress  consists  in 
spreading  sanctification.  Systematic  minds,  ultramontane 
avowedly  or  in  disguise,  identify  Church  and  State  in  the 
organic  unity  of  mankind  whose  saving  grace  is  piety  and 
whose  development  thus  depends  on  the  centralized  and 
authoritative  teaching  of  religion.  This  philosophy, 
whether  illustrated  at  Rome  or  Geneva,  at  Smithfield  or 
at  Salem,  has  generally  shown  itself  to  be  associated  with 
practical  disadvantages  which,  whatever  its  merits  or  how- 
ever perfect  its  reasoning,  have  put  the  Zeitgeist  out  of 
conceit  with  it.  For  the  moment,  at  all  events,  this  tyrant 
is  more  favorably  disposed  to  the  ethics  of  the  utilitarians, 
as  illustrated  in  Mr.  Morley’s  criticism  of  Condorcet  for 
omitting  ” the  natural  history  of  western  morals,”  which 
he  regards  as  ” a result  of  evolution  that  needed  historical 
explanation  ” as  much  as  the  evolution  of  the  intelligence 
— or,  as  caricatured  by  Mr.  Adler  in  finding  the  ethics  of 
the  shepherds  and  fishermen  of  Galilee,  two  thousand  years 
ago,  rudimentary  beside  the  elaborate  results  reached  by 
Societies  of  Ethical  Culture  to-day.  Condorcet  would 
reply  to  both  these  positions  by  accusing  both  of  confus- 
ing social  with  personal  morality.  He  would  perhaps 
assure  Mr.  Morley  that  as  personal  morality  depends  solely 


Morality 


63 


upon  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  a conscience  however 
little  enlightened,  any  mention  of  its  separate  evolution 
as  an  element  of  progress  is  misleading.  In  reply  to  the 
metaphysicians  he  would  certainly  maintain  that,  although 
it  is  perfectly  true  that  “education  cannot  make  men 
moral,”  it  is  equally  true  that  nothing  but  education  can 
make  mankind  moral.  He  would  argue  with  President 
Gilman:  “ There  is  no  better  way  known  to  man  for  secur- 
ing intellectual  and  moral  integrity  than  to  encourage 
those  habits,  those  methods  and  those  pursuits  which  tend 
to  establish  truth.”  He  would  probably  point  out  the 
dangers  to  social,  of  a too  exclusive  devotion  to  personal, 
morality;  and  indicate  the  unhappy  ethical  result  of  a 
passionless,  unintellectual,  unpersonally-investigated,  con- 
ventional morality,  of  which  the  springs  are  accepted  com- 
monplaces. He  would  assert  that,  whereas  an  ignorant 
man  might  be  as  moral  as  a savant,  there  is  no  record 
of  any  unenlightened  moral  community;  that  though  the 
existence  of  an  Alexander  VI.  is  compatible  with  learning 
it  is  inconsistent  with  common  schools;  that  moral  devel- 
opment goes  on  in  the  community  as  a spontaneous  con- 
comitant of  general  intellectual  growth,  the  discovery  of 
one  age  being  the  morality  of  the  next;  that  the  “ prog- 
ress of  morality  ” does  not  mean  the  spread  of  the  dispo- 
sition to  do  one’s  duty  as  one  sees  it,  but  the  growth  of 
the  conception  of  what  duty  really  is.  “ Does  this  or  that 
community  conceive  this  or  that  to  be  right  or  wrong?  Is 
its  moral  ideal  salutary  or  not?”  are  questions  whose 
answers  furnish  the  test  of  social  morality  and  depend  on 
illumination  rather  than  on  conscience.  Which  best  serves 
the  cause  of  social  morality,  the  Salvation  Army  or  Girard 
College,  Mr.  Moody  or  Harvard  University?  A commu- 
nity which  compasses  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  animals 


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may  conceivably  contain  a smaller  proportion  of  eminently 
righteous  men  than  one  which  burns  witches  or  sanctions 
the  suttee,  but  its  social  morality  is  distinctly  higher.  As 
to  communities,  it  is  the  French  notion  that  the  attempt 
to  anticipate  the  census  of  the  New  Jerusalem  is  idle;  and 
the  discovery,  through  mental  confusion,  of  Sodoms  and 
Gomorrahs  in  other  epochs  and  distant  lands,  a difficult 
and  dangerous  proceeding. 


CHAPTER  III 


INTELLIGENCE 

The  sensation  which  France  produces  on  the  impres- 
sionable foreigner  is  first  of  all  that  of  mental  exhilara- 
tion. Paris,  especially,  is  electric.  Touch  it  at  any  point 
and  you  receive  an  awakening  shock.  Live  in  it  and  you 
lose  all  lethargy.  Nothing  stagnates.  Every  one  visibly 
and  acutely  feels  himself  alive.  The  universal  vivacity  is 
contagious.  You  find  yourself  speaking,  thinking,  mov- 
ing faster,  but  without  fatigue  and  without  futility.  The 
moral  air  is  tonic,  respiration  is  effortless,  and  energy  is 
unconscious  of  exertion.  Nowhere  is  there  so  much  activ- 
ity; nowhere  so  little  chaos.  Nowhere  does  action  follow 
thought  so  swiftly,  and  nowhere  is  there  so  much  thinking 
done.  Some  puissant  force,  universal  in  its  operation,  has 
manifestly  so  exalted  the  spirit  of  an  entire  nation,  here 
centred  and  focussed,  as  to  produce  on  every  hand  that 
phenomenon  which  Schiller  admirably  characterizes  in  de- 
claring that  “the  last  perfection  of  our  qualities  is  when 
their  activity,  without  ceasing  to  be  sure  and  earnest,  be- 
comes sport.”  The  very  monuments  of  the  past  are  as 
steeped  in  its  influences  as  the  boulevard  Babel  of  the 
present.  The  grandiose  towers  and  severe  fagade  of  Notre 
Dame  speak  the  same  thought,  in  the  dialect  of  their 
epoch,  that  the  Pantheon  uttered  to  the  eighteenth  and 
the  Arc  de  l’Etoile  declares  to  our  own  century.  The 
panorama  which  spreads  out  before  one  from  Montmartre 
5 


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or  St.  Cloud  is  permeated  with  this  thought — as  distinct 
to  the  mental  as  the  scene  itself  is  to  the  physical  vision. 
Paris  seems  to  stand  for  it — as  did  the  Athens  of  Pericles 
and  the  Florence  of  the  Renaissance.  Like  them,  she 
seems  to  symbolize  the  apotheosis  of  intellect.  The  present 
everywhere  asserts  itself  with  superb  confidence;  the  en- 
tire environment  is  modern,  untraditional,  self-reliant;  the 
past  steps  down  from  the  tyrant’s  chair  and  assumes  with 
dignity  the  pose  of  history,  while  students,  not  votaries, 
keep  it  free  from  the  dust  of  the  hospitable  museums  that 
harbor  it.  Is  not  each  generation,  every  moment,  pro- 
vided with  the’ light  of  its  own  mind — that  light  which 
Carlyle  himself  unwarily  calls  “the  direct  inspiration 
of  the  Almighty”?  Is  not  consciousness  the  greatest  of 
divine  gifts  to  man?  Is  not  intelligence  the  measure  of 
his  distance  from  the  brutes,  the  bond  which  unites  him  to 
the  gods,  the  instrument  of  his  salvation? 

This  confidence  in  the  syllogism,  this  belief  in  the  hu- 
man intelligence,  this  worship  of  reason,  has  been  charac- 
teristic of  France  ever  since  the  nation  became  conscious 
of  itself  as  a nation.  And  the  fact  that  its  special  dis- 
tinction is  highly  developed  intelligence  is  perhaps  equally 
a cause  and  an  effect  of  this.  The  form  taken  by  the 
Revolution,  that  great  purge  and  renewer  of  the  modern 
world,  was  thus  wholly  natural.  It  embodied  the  nation’s 
belief  in  the  saving  power  of  reason  and  its  impatience 
with  anomalies  and  absurdities.  The  desecration  of  the 
churches,  the  revolt  against  religion,  the  endeavor  to  in- 
fuse life  into  antique  formularies  as  jejune  as  they  were 
classic,  the  mad  terror  at  the  threatened  reimposition  by 
Europe  of  the  old  anarchy,  Napoleon’s  career  of  conquest 
carrying  the  Revolution  to  all  neighboring  peoples, 
whether  they  wanted  it  or  not — every  feature,  in  fact,  of 


Intelligence 


6 7 


the  great  upheaval  is  significant  of  the  nation’s  confidence 
in  the  competence  of  mind  in  every  crisis.  That  the 
mutual  relations  of  long-existent  phenomena  could  con- 
stitute a subtle  harmony  quite  apart  from  the  absurd  and 
anomalous  character  of  the  phenomena  themselves,  and 
wholly  beyond  the  power  of  mind  to  see,  though  within 
the  circle  of  instinctive  feeling,  France  did  not  feel,  and 
has  never  felt.  The  belief  that  the  “ increasing  purpose  ” 
running  through  the  ages  operates  through  any  other 
agency  than  that  of  the  human  intelligence  seems  fantas- 
tic to  French  reason.  Working  out  the  harmony  of  the 
universe  through  the  “ ways  of  the  wicked  ” or  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  good  it  views  with  complete  scepticism. 
Even  now  the  reactionary  Frenchman  who  would  restore 
the  ancien  regime  feels  as  he  does  because  he  likes  the 
monarchic  ideal,  and  not  because  he  resents  the  rude 
manner  of  its  taking  off.  And  it  is  this  confidence  in  the 
efficacy  of  the  intelligence  which  makes  the  French  so 
swift  to  execute  their  ideas,  so  anxious  to  press  and  im- 
pose them.  The  trait  is  as  noticeable  in  personal  as  in 
public  matters,  in  the  social  as  in  the  political  arena.  It 
is  this  which  makes  them  so  enamoured  of  the  positive 
and  practical  truths;  and  it  is  their  passionate  attachment 
to  these,  and  their  desire  to  make  them  prevail,  which 
splits  parties  into  groups,  reverses  ministries,  produces 
revolutions.  That  a thing  should  be  admitted  and  not 
adopted  is  incomprehensible  to  the  French  mind;  that  it 
should  not  be  admitted  after  having  been  proved,  after  all 
that  may  be  said  against  it  has  been  answered,  and  simply 
because  of  an  instinctive  distrust  in  the  human  reason,  is 
inconceivable  to  it. 

In  finding  intelligence  thus  universal  in  France,  and 
integral  in  the  French  nature,  I mean,  of  course,  to  con- 


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found  it  with  neither  culture  nor  erudition.  I mean  such 
intelligence  as  Mr.  Hamerton  notes  in  the  French  peasant 
when  he  says  that  the  interval  between  the  French  peas- 
ant and  a Kentish  laborer  is  enormous,  densely  ignorant 
as  both  may  be.  Or  that  quality,  to  take  a distinguished 
example,  which  enabled  Pascal,  who  had  no  reading,  to 
anticipate  in  the  seventeenth  century  such  a light  of  the 
eighteenth  as  Kant,  and  such  a light  of  the  nineteenth  as 
Charles  Darwin.  It  is  the  quality  in  virtue  of  which  rich 
and  poor,  educated  and  illiterate,  priest  and  sceptic,  can 
meet  on  common  ground  and  understand  each  other. 
There  is,  intellectually  speaking,  far  more  disinterested- 
ness than  elsewhere.  People  divide  upon  ideas,  and  not 
upon  prejudices,  or  even  upon  interests.  Mind  enters 
into  everything.  Even  the  fool  reasons — which  is  perhaps 
why  he  is  the  most  intolerable  fool  on  the  footstool.  The 
“crank”  is  unknown.  Respect  for  the  embodiment  of 
intelligence  in  books,  science,  or  art,  and  for  the  distin- 
guished in  these  lines  of  effort,  pervades  all  ranks.  M. 
Prudhomme  himself  cherishes  a deep  regard  for  them. 
One  of  his  commonplaces  is:  “ La  seule  aristocratic,  c’est 
l’aristocratie  du  talent.”  The  heroes  of  French  society, 
taken  in  the  large  sense,  are  the  men  who  have  excelled  in 
some  intellectual  field.  English  qualities,  English  accom- 
plishments, are  never  extolled  to  them  without  reminding 
them  of  the  contrast  in  this,  to  their  sense,  vital  regard 
between  the  materialism  of  England  and  their  own  civil- 
ized ideal.  Yet  such  is  the  elasticity  and  suppleness  of 
the  French  intelligence  that  whereas  Mr.  Froude  exclaims 
bitterly,  “ In  England  the  literary  class  has  no  standing 
or  influence,”  M.  Philippe  Daryl  states  the  phenomenon 
with  much  more  rational  explicitness  in  saying,  “Our 
neighbors  regard  their  men  of  letters  simply  as  specialists 


Intelligence 


6 9 


fulfilling  their  functions  in  the  general  work,  and  having 
a just  claim,  in  the  division  of  profits,  to  their  rightful 
share  of  pay  and  esteem.” 

It  is  impossible,  in  short,  to  read  French  books,  to  meet 
French  people,  to  study  French  history,  without  perceiv- 
ing that  the  unvarying  centre  of  the  national  target  is  the 
truth,  the  fact,  the  reality.  This  is  the  shining  disk  at 
which  the  Frenchman  aims,  in  criticism  as  in  construction, 
in  art  as  in  science.  Milton’s  grandiose  and  beautiful  im- 
ages strike  M.  Scherer  especially  because  they  are  true  as 
well — because  they  are,  as  he  says,  “ toujours  justes  dans 
leur  beaute.”  The  drawing,  the  values,  justness  of  tone, 
redeem  any  picture,  however  frivolous  its  meaning; 
errors  in  these  respects  condemn  any,  however  noble  its 
sentiment.  Far  inferior  to  Donatello  and  the  Greeks,  is 
M.  Rodin’s  judgment  of  Michael  Angelo.  Far  superior 
to  all  painters,  is  Fromentin’s  verdict  on  the  Dutch  mas- 
ters. The  concluding  lines  of  the  ‘‘Ode  on  a Grecian 
Urn  ” sum  up  the  French  belief  with  exactness,  as  they 
do  ours  only  by  extension;  and  it  is  at  once  the  distinc- 
tion and  the  defect  of  French  literature  that  it  may  be 
justly  called  a splendid  and  varied  formulation  of  this  be- 
lief. Familiar  as  well  as  classic  literature  bears  the  same 
witness.  Compare,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  intelli- 
gence, the  ‘‘Causeries”  of  Sainte-Beuve  with  those  of 
Thackeray.  The  ‘‘Roundabout”  chat  may  have  more 
charm,  more  philosophy,  but  the  charm  and  the  philoso- 
phy are  both  sentimental.  But  for  their  magical  style 
they  would  be  doomed  to  oblivion  long  before  Sainte- 
Beuve’s  judgments  reached  the  fulness  of  their  fame.  A 
great  deal  has  been  said — and  said  in  France  itself — in 
praise  of  the  English  essay,  its  delightful  indiscretions,  its 
personal  intimacy.  But  when  a Frenchman  has  anything 


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analogous  to  do,  he  does  it  on  a plane  of  the  intelligence 
distinctly  higher  than  that  of  the  vast  majority  of  English 
essays  since  their  origin  in  the  sentimental  “ Spectator.” 
M.  Renan,  M.  Pailleron,  M.  Anatole  France,  the  most 
diverse  French  essayists,  even  in  a department  of  effort 
which  is  regarded  rather  as  a digression  and  diversion, 
agree  in  dealing  quite  exclusively  with  the  thinking  power. 
In  this  field,  as  in  others,  there  is  undoubtedly  a great 
deal  of  inferior  work  done,  but  it  is  inferior  in  a different 
way  from  our  inferior  productions  of  the  kind;  it  is 
pedantic,  or  superficial,  or  prosy,  or  stilted — it  is  not  flat, 
emotional,  and  unintelligent.  And  of  the  really  superior 
work  it  is  difficult  to  overestimate  the  amount  or  the  supe- 
riority. For  one  English  or  American,  German  or  Italian 
novelist,  feuilletoniste,  chroniqueur , critic  of  dignified  capa- 
city, there  are  a dozen,  a score,  French  ones.  In  Spain 
and  Italy  French  wares  visibly  outnumber  the  native  ones 
in  the  book-stores.  Commerce  carries  French  books  to  as 
remote  regions  as  it  does  Sheffield  cutlery  or  Manchester 
cottonades.  In  America  we  have  simply  no  notion  of 
how  in  this  way  the  French  ideal  disseminates  itself  from 
'Fangier  to  St.  Petersburg.  In  every  country  it  is  an 
affectation  to  talk  French;  the  dullest  prig  thus  feels  him- 
self at  once  artistically  occupied.  The  whole  intellectual 
movement  of  Latin  Europe  is  French.  Scientifically,  of 
course,  France  follows  the  lead  of  the  Germans,  of  the 
English.  The  eminence  of  M.  Pasteur  is  somewhat  soli- 
tary,  perhaps.  But  science  and  erudition  are  special  prov- 
inces of  accomplishment,  and  it  is  in  the  development  and 
diffusion  of  native  intelligence  in  its  general  and  humane 
aspects  that  the  French  strength  lies.  If  M.  Pasteur  is 
not  one  of  a group  of  which  he  is  primus  inter  pares , as 
might  have  been  said  of  Mr.  Darwin,  and  as  may  perhaps 


Intelligence 


7i 


be  said  now  of  Helmholtz,  his  vogue  is  far  greater  than 
that  of  any  of  his  foreign  contemporaries.  Millions  of 
Englishmen  never  heard  of  Professor  Huxley.  Millions 
of  Germans  are  ignorant  of  Helmholtz’s  existence.  There 
are,  in  comparison,  few  Frenchmen,  probably,  who  do  not 
know  that  M.  Pasteur  is  one  of  “ les  gloires  de  la  France.” 
And  the  national  turn  for  intellectual  seriousness  is  as 
conspicuous  in  the  periodical  press  as  in  literature.  The 
press,  in  fact,  is  literature  to  a degree  unknown  in  Eng- 
land and  among  ourselves.  The  “journalist”  and  the 
litterateur  are  not  distinct,  as  one  has  only  to  read  the 
journals  that  flourish  and  the  journals  that  struggle  to 
perceive  that  they  are  here.  Indeed,  our  most  eminent 
“journalists,”  who  seem  now  to  be  getting  the  upper 
hand  of  the  “merely  literary”  writers  and  establishing 
themselves  as  a class,  resent  being  confounded  with  the 
latter,  and  hold  the  same  opinion  of  them  as  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, of  Pennsylvania.  They  address  themselves  very  lit- 
tle to  the  intelligence  and  exercise  their  own  wits,  which 
are  unsurpassed,  in  providing  attractive  bait  for  that  pop- 
ular variety  of  gudgeon  known  as  “the  average  man” 
and  “ the  general  reader,”  and  known  to  be  endowed  with 
only  a rudimentary  digestive  apparatus  for  the  things  of 
the  mind.  They  have  a corresponding  disregard  for 
French  journalism,  to  which  “enterprise”  is  unknown, 
and  which  appeals  far  more  exclusively  to  the  intelligence. 
“A  new  idea  every  day,”  Emile  de  Girardin  maintained 
was  the  secret  of  successful  journalism;  following  it,  he 
became  the  most  successful  journalist  of  his  time.  And 
ideas  are,  in  Paris,  so  far  more  numerous  and  fecund  than 
are  our  kind  of  sensations,  even  manufactured  sensations, 
that  Paris  has  on  an  average  some  eighty  odd  daily  papers. 
If  the  “ Figaro  ” desires  to  be  especially  startling,  it  gets 


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M.  Mirbeau,  or  M.  Grandlieu,  or  M.  Saint-Genest,  to 
exalt  some  disquieting  ineptitude  into  plausibility;  it  does 
not  procure  bogus  interviews,  or  print  a broadside  of  pri- 
vate letters,  or  invent  a puerile  hoax..  The  police  reports 
are  fewer  and  infinitely  less  elaborate.  Names  and  dates 
are  no  more  important  to  the  interest  of  an  actual  than  to 
that  of  an  imaginary  drama.  The  law  imposes  respect  for 
privacy,  but  the  law  has  the  full  support  of  the  public, 
which  would  find  our  “Personal’'  columns,  our  “Here 
and  There,”  our  “ Men  of  To-Day,”  our  “ Society  ” news, 
and,  in  fine,  our  entire  pre-occupation  with  vapid  person- 
ality, simply  unreadable.  The  gossip  of  the  French  press 
is  pompous  and  pretentious,  but  it  is  not  pitched  in  either 
the  lackey  or  the  parvenu  key.  Interviewing  is  still  an 
occasional  eccentricity.  Whoever  has  anything  interest- 
ing to  say  is  able  and  prefers  to  say  it  himself  in  his  own 
way.  And  all  that  is  not  “ enterprise”  is  very  much  bet- 
ter done  than  with  us.  Criticism  follows  the  movement  in 
art,  in  literature,  and  in  science  far  more  closely  and  more 
discreetly.  Of  even  tolerable  criticism  we  have,  speaking 
strictly,  very  little;  and  the  best,  the  very  best,  is  apt  to 
consist  of  the  specific  judgment  of  the  specialist  concern- 
ing the  immediate  case  in  hand — a high-class  and  consci- 
entiously executed  “Guide  to  Bookbuvers,”  in  a word; 
excellent  in  its  way,  but  also  eloquent  of  the  lack  of  the 
humanized  public  which  demands  real  criticism — criticism 
of  scope,  full  of  generalizations,  bringing  to  bear  trained 
faculties  and  stored  wisdom  to  the  task  of  that  construct- 
ive work  which  shows  the  relations  as  well  as  the  character 
of  its  subject.  Even  in  political  and  social  discussion  our 
journals  show  a gingerliness  in  dealing  with  generaliza- 
tion, which  indicates  clearly  that  it  is  an  article  suspected 
of  their  customers.  The  attitude  toward  it  of  the  latter  is 


Intelligence 


73 


evidently  very  much  that  of  O’Connell’s  fish-wife  to  the 
word  “ parallelopipedon. ” Yet  of  that  amplification,  his- 
torical allusion,  elementary  erudition,  and  cheap  rhetorical 
embroidery  which  some  of  our  successful  editorial  writers 
assimilate  from  their  text-book,  Macaulay — of  that  kind 
of  writing,  in  short,  which  addresses  unintelligent  admira- 
tion of  the  things  of  the  mind,  the  veriest  Gradgrinds  of 
our  public  seem  never  to  tire.  Of  course,  the  system  of 
signing  articles  which  obtains  in  France  would  prick  these 
bubbles,  were  they  blown  there,  but  it  is  evident  that  the 
public  has  no  taste  for  them.  The  French  public  is 
pleased  with  its  own  follies  and  fatuities;  it  has  it’s  own 
superficiality  and  its  own  variety  of  provincialism.  It  suf- 
fers especially  from  that  hypertrophy  of  the  intelligence, 
chronic  esprit , as  one  of  the  prominent  but  hardly  serious 
journals  shows  in  melancholy  distinction ; every  morning 
it  gives  one  a picture  of  the  mental  wreck,  the  state  of 
irresponsibility,  reached  by  a concentrated  and  exclusive 
development  of  a talent  for  esprit , of  which  the  first-fruits 
were  immensely  clever,  but  which  culminated  with  the 
Second  Empire,  whose  hollowness  it  had  done  so  much  to 
expose.  But  imagine  the  subscribers  of  “ L’lntransi- 
geant,”  or  of  “ L’ Autorite,  ” reading  our  journals  of  the 
same  grade  of  seriousness.  And  it  is  impossible  to  take 
up  a French  paper  of  the  better  class  without  being  struck 
by  the  way  in  which  it  is  written,  by  the  security  which 
the  writer  evidently  feels  in  the  capacity  of  his  readers  to 
understand  him  completely,  and  by  his  equally  evident 
consciousness  that  emotional  appeals,  dialectical  sophisms, 
ingenious  beggings  of  the  question,  insincere  extenuations, 
impudent  exaggerations,  and  the  rest  of  this  order  of  artil- 
lery which  plays  so  prominent  a part  in  our  newspaper- 
warfare,  will  avail  him  nothing  if  his  reader  be  not  in  sym- 


74 


French  Traits 


pathy  with  him  or  his  presentation  of  his  case  be  neither 
sound  nor  attractive.  There  is,  in  consequence,  a sort  of 
“take  it  or  leave  it”  air  about  the  French  newspaper 
article  that  speaks  volumes  for  the  intelligence  of  its 
readers.  Its  moral  attitude  is  that  of  M.  Halevy’s  “In- 
surge,”  to  whom,  even  in  the  supreme  crisis  of  mortal 
peril,  the  idea  of  influencing  his  judges  by  emotional 
appeal,  or  by  sophistical  distortion  of  a plain  case,  does 
not  even  occur. 

Very  superficial  observation,  very  slight  introspection, 
suffice  to  assure  us,  on  the  other  hand,  that  we  need  not 
go  to  the  press  for  illustration  of  the  opposite  attitude. 
In  every  circle  the  most  singular  paradoxes  are  current. 
They  are  amply  sustained  by  that  ingenuity  of  dialectic 
which  is  a perversion  of  one’s  own  and  an  affront  to 
others’  intelligence.  “Things  are  what  they  are,  sa>s 
Bishop  Butler,  “and  the  consequences  of  them  will  be 
what  they  will  be.  Why,  then,  should  we  desire  to  be 
deceived  ?”  Simply  because  there  are  other  considera- 
tions more  valuable  in  our  eyes  than  avoiding  being  de- 
ceived. If  we  did  not  suffer  ourselves  to  be  duped,  if  we 
did  not  at  need  elaborately  dupe  ourselves,  such  is  our 
idea  of  duty  that  conscience  would  not  permit  us  to  do 
certain  things,  an  irresistible  impulsion  towards  which, 
according  to  a reverend  theory,  we  owe  to  the  momentum 
of  the  fall  of  our  progenitor,  Adam.  Either  these  things 
do  not  tempt  the  Frenchman,  or  his  intelligence  perceives 
their  noxiousness,  or  he  yields  to  them  with  his  e\es  open 
and  does  not  seek  to  elude  punishment  in  sophistication. 
Ethically  speaking,  he  thus  escapes  cant;  but  lie  escapes 
also,  in  the  entire  moral  sphere,  the  dangers  arising  from 
mental  confusion.  He  feels  that  talking,  writing,  argu- 
ment, cleverness,  can  change  nothing  in  the  constitution 


Intelligence 


75 


of  things,  that  emotional  seriousness  will  not  transform 
intellectual  levity,  and  consequently  he  develops  no  taste 
for  that  Anglo-Saxon  passion  known  to  him  as  these — that 
is  to  say,  argument  for  argument’s  sake.  He  is  not  at- 
tracted by  the  supposititious.  His  mind  has  no  “ Pick- 
wickian ” phases.  His  triumph  in  a contest  in  intellectual 
dexterity  would  be  empoisoned  by  fear  lest  his  skill  be 
taken  for  sincerity,  and  his  mind,  accordingly,  supposed 
ingenious  rather  than  acute,  imaginative  rather  than  sure 
and  sound.  He  avoids  thus  the  confusion  of  temper  and 
passion  in  all  discussion.  Temper  and  passion  mean  devi- 
ation from  the  end  in  view;  they  prevent  the  object  from 
being  seen  “ in  itself  as  it  really  is;”  emotion  is  quite  dis- 
sociated with  getting  at  that,  and,  therefore,  though  the 
social  and  artistic  impulses  lead  the  Frenchman  to  express 
a great  deal  of  emotion  at  times,  to  become  apparently 
excited  in  a way  which  would  in  our  case  indicate  the  sub- 
mersion of  the  intelligence  by  a flood  of  passion,  his  emo- 
tional expression  is  generally  decorative,  so  to  speak,  rather 
than  structural.  Withal  the  French  intelligence  seems  to 
have  almost  no  frivolous  side.  The  different  varieties  of 
mental  arithmetic,  guessing-games,  puzzles,  puns,  spiritu- 
alism, theosophy,  fanaticisms,  have  no  attractions  for  it. 
It  instinctively  shrinks  from  all  such  desultory  and  futile 
manifestations  of  the  scientific  spirit.  When  a famous 
“mind-reader,”  who  has  excited  the  earnest  interest  of 
both  branches  of  our  great  race,  was  in  Paris,  a few  years 
ago,  one  of  the  papers  expressed  the  general  feeling  in  the 
suggestion  that  a pin  be  hid  on  a transport  about  to  sail 
for  Tonquin  in  order  that  the  mind-reader’s  success  in 
finding  it  might  be  the  means  of  taking  him  definitively 
away  from  a wearied  public. 

Life  is  almost  never  in  France  taken  en  amateur , as  it  is 


76 


French  Traits 


so  largely  with  us  at  the  present  epoch.  It  is  taken, 
rather,  en  connaisseur.  People  do  not  do  things  merely 
from  the  love  of  them,  without  regard  to  their  capacity 
for  doing  them.  Every  lover  of  literature  does  not  make 
verses.  Every  lover  of  the  drama  does  not  write  a play. 
It  is  not  in  France  a distinction  for  a person  of  particu- 
larly literary  tastes  not  to  have  attempted  a novel.  The 
love  of  knowledge  is  not  perhaps  as  insatiable  as  with  us, 
but  it  is  infinitely  more  judicious.  Interest  in  a wide 
range  of  subjects  is  not  accepted  by  its  possessor  as  the 
equivalent  of  encyclopaedic  erudition,  any  more  than  it  is 
so  accepted  with  us  by  the  acquaintances  of  its  possessor. 
“ Aspire  to  know  all  things,”  says  M.  Renan  to  the 
French  youth;  ” the  limits  will  appear  soon  enough.”  No 
American  Chiron  could  wisely  give  such  advice  to  our  Achil- 
leses.  And  to  many  of  our  universal  aspirants  the  word 
“limits”  can  have  really  no  meaning,  since  to  the  ap- 
petite of  the  pure  amateur  it  has  no  application.  The 
true  connoisseur,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Frenchman,  pro- 
ceeds by  exclusion.  To  enjoy,  he  needs  to  know;  and  to 
know,  every  one  needs  to  select.  We  get  along  very  well 
without  selecting,  because  even  in  the  intellectual  sphere 
it  is  our  susceptibility,  rather  than  our  intelligence,  that 
seeks  satisfaction.  But  about  a thousand  practical  and 
positive  topics  the  Frenchman,  who  speaks  from  experi- 
ence and  examination,  finds  our  views  speculative  and 
immature.  We,  who  have  enough  Teutonism  in  us  to 
enjoy  the  vague,  and  of  ourselves  demand  only  that  it  be 
also  the  vast,  find  him  in  turn  a trifle  hard,  a trifle  narrow, 
a trifle  professional.  He  is,  in  fact,  terribly  explicit.  His 
exactness,  were  it  not  relieved  by  so  many  humane  quali- 
ties. would  be  excessive  ; ' - 

ever,  the  exactness  of  the  pedant.  It  is  the  precision  of 


Intelligence 


77 


perfect  candor  and  clairvoyance  exercised  on  objects 
wholly  within  its  range  of  vision  and  undisturbed  by 
anxiety  as  to  what  lies  outside.  Of  that  the  intelligence 
gives  no  report,  and  to  the  Frenchman  the  “immediate 
beholding”  of  Kant  and  Coleridge  is  the  same  pure  ab- 
straction that  it  was  to  Carlyle.  In  this  way,  and  owing 
to  the  professional  view  taken  of  it,  life  becomes  an  ex- 
ceedingly specialized  affair.  It  lacks  the  element  of  un- 
certainty. That  of  each  individual  is  in  great  measure 
prearranged.  Given  the  circumstances,  which  in  France 
it  is  not  difficult  to  predict,  and  it  may  even  easily  be  fore- 
told. It  will  not  be  deflected  by  whim  or  faucy.  Only  in 
rare  instances  will  it  be  transfigured  by  passion.  The  in- 
dividual is  too  rational  to  be  swerved  by  sentiment,  and  it 
is  sentiment  that  is  the  great  source  of  the  unforeseen  and 
the  unexpected. 

Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  was  not  long  ago  praising  us  for 
our  straight-thinking,  or  at  all  events  telling  his  country- 
men that  our  thinking  is  straighter  than  theirs.  The  com- 
pliment is  a gracious  one,  but  to  be  told  that  we  think 
“ straighter  ” than  Englishmen  ought  not  to  make  us  con- 
ceited. A comparison  of  our  own  with  French  thinking, 
in  this  respect  of  straightness,  could  not  fail  to  have  a less 
flattering  result.  We  are  not,  to  be  sure,  like  the  English, 
handicapped  by  the  dilemma  of  either  thinking  crookedly 
or  else  admitting  that  much  of  the  constitution  of  our 
society,  its  ideals  and  its  ambitions,  its  objects  of  admira- 
tion and  of  ridicule,  is  anomalous  and  antiquated.  But  to 
fancy  our  thinking  as  free  from  prejudice  and  confusion 
as  that  of  a society  where  cant  is  unknown,  even  though 
its  substitute  be  fatuity,  would  be  clear  optimism.  Upon 
a vast  body  of  intellectual  matters  our  thinking  is  not 
straight  because  it  is,  in  these  matters,  dependent  upon 


7« 


French  Traits 


certain  firmly  held  notions  which  would  be  seriously  com- 
promised if  we  were  not  careful  to  keep  one  eye  on  them, 
whatever  subject  we  may  be  dealing  with  at  the  moment. 

If  I admit  this  in  regard  to  A,  what  will  be  the  effect  of 
the  admission  upon  the  opinion  I hold  in  regard  to  X?  is 
a common  mental  reflection  with  us  when  brought  face  to 
face  with  certain  topics.  This  is  never  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  the  Frenchman,  who  looks  at  the  matter  in  hand 
with  absolute  directness.  He  has  an  instinctive  dislike  of 
the  confusion  which  results  from  thinking  of  more  than 
one  thing  at  a time,  an  instinctive  disposition  to  look  at  it 
simply  and  postpone  all  consideration  of  its  consequences 

about  which  we  are  in  general  deeply  concerned.  He 

readily  makes  sacrifices  to  insure  clearness.  The  Ameri- 
can habit  of  hedging  in  advance  against  a possible  change 
of  opinion  in  the  event  of  later  information  (a  clumsy 
device  for  avoiding  the  brutality  of  downrightness,  much 
in  vogue  with  our  “subtler”  writers)  is  unknown  to  him. 
One  remarks  all  this  in  the  first  discussion  among  French- 
men that  he  listens  to  or  shares.  Possibly  owing  in  part 
to  temperament,  to  a certain  insouciance , to  a conviction 
that  the  destinies  of  empires  are  not  really  being  decided, 
the  admissions  made,  the  easy  acknowledgment  of  mis- 
take, are  surprising.  But,  mainly,  these  phenomena  are 
to  be  ascribed  to  the  straighter  thinking  of  the  brench 
mind,  to  its  unembarrassed  poise,  its  genius  for  clearness, 
its  confidence  in  itself. 

At  the  bottom  of  our  own  peculiarities  in  the  matter  of 
thinking  lies  certainly  an  inherited  distrust  in  the  intelli- 
gence working  thus  simply  and  freely.  Of  Butler  s say- 
ing, before  cited,  namely,  that  “ things  are  what  they  are, 
and  the  consequences  of  them  will  be  what  they  will  be, 
Mr.  Arnold  admirably  affirms  that  “ to  take  in  and  to 


Intelligence 


79 


digest  such  a sentence  as  that  is  an  education  in  moral 
and  intellectual  veracity.”  Every  Frenchman  is  thus 
educated,  however,  and  Mr.  Arnold’s  further  remark, 
that  “intensely  Butlerian  as  the  sentence  is,  Butler  came 
to  it  because  he  is  English,”  seems  fantastic.  He  came 
to  see  the  importance  of  saying  it  because  of  his  English 
environment.  To  a Frenchman  it  is  an  accepted  com- 
monplace. And,  indeed,  we,  if  we  withdraw  our  attention 
for  a moment  from  the  ingrained  Anglo-Saxon  indisposi- 
tion to  credit  it  in  practice,  and  look  at  the  maxim  clearly 
and  straightforwardly,  as  at  a mere  intellectual  proposi- 
tion— as  a Frenchman  looks  at  all  maxims  or  other 
arrangements  of  words  in  sentences— we  can  feel  that  it 
loses  something  of  its  apparently  sensational  profundity. 
But  in  practice,  owing  to  our  English  hereditament,  we 
do  not  simply  bring  our  consciousness  to  bear  upon  any 
point  and,  after  listening  to  its  report,  deem  our  whole 
duty  discharged — even  if  the  point  be  a maxim  which  we 
can,  on  close  inspection,  perceive  to  be  axiomatic.  In 
practice  our  English  instinct  warns  us  against  being  sure 
that  things  are  what  to  the  unaided  intelligence  they  seem 
to  be;  we  have  no  confidence  that  there  is  any  predeter- 
mined law  governing  their  consequences;  and  if  there  be, 
we  are  not  at  all  sure  there  is  not  some  excellent  reason 
why  we  should  wish  to  be  deceived.  The  entire  history  of 
the  development  of  the  British  constitution,  which  we,  in 
common  with  Englishmen,  admire  not  more  for  its  results 
than  for  the  method  by  which  these  have  been  attained, 
is  a conspicuous  illustration  of  this.  No  more  forcible 
example  of  the  difference  between  the  French  attitude 
toward  the  intelligence  and  our  own  could  be  adduced. 
The  French  way  of  arriving  at  their  constitution  we,  in 
fact,  do  not  recognize  as  a development — as,  indeed,  for 


8o 


French  Traits 


the  past  two  centuries  and  a half  it  has  not  been;  the 
Tiers  Etat  knew  nearly  as  well  what  it  wanted  in  1615  as  it 
does  to-day,  and  since  then  the  “ development  ” of  French 
society  has  consisted  largely  in  converting  its  intelligence 
into  statutory  enactments.  But  whenever  we  think  of 
what  little  we  know  of  this  growth  of  French  institutions 
it  is  with  either  contempt  or  compassion  for  the  French 
inability  to  make  haste  slowly,  for  their  unwise  hurry  to 
draw  the  conclusion  after  both  premises  are  settled,  for 
their  conviction  that  the  order  of  nature  insures  things 
being  what  they  are,  for  their  blindness  to  Burke’s  ingen- 
ious tabling  of  discussion  in  insisting  that  regard  should 
only  be  had  to  “ man’s  nature  as  modified  by  his  habits,” 
for,  in  a word,  their  overweening  and  short-sighted  confi- 
dence in  the  efficacy  of  the  intelligence.  We  philosophize 
in  this  way  about  matters  of  large  importance,  just  as  our 
English  cousins  do  about  all  matters — from  the  blessings 
of  inequality  to  the  speciousness  of  the  decimal  system. 

Nothing,  of  course,  is  more  foreign  to  the  French  mind 
than  this  attitude,  which  it  is  probably  as  incapable  of 
appreciating  in  others  as  of  assuming  itself.  It  never 
even  affects  ” the  humility  becoming  such  doubtful  things 
as  human  conclusions,”  to  use  an  English  writer’s  phrase. 
It  regards  such  “humility”  very  much  as  metaphysicians 
regard  the  similar  distrust  of  the  authority  of  conscious- 
ness which  sometimes  distresses  the  beginner  in  psychol- 
ogy— as  distrust,  namely,  of  “the  measure,”  in  Cole- 
ridge’s words,  “of  everything  else  which  we  deem 
certain.”  In  virtue  thus  of  their  taking  intelligence 
seriously,  the  French  make,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
very  much  more  frequent  use  of  it  than  we  do;  and  as 
nothing  develops  and  polishes  a quality  so  much  as  culti- 
vation, it  is  not  surprising  that  they  strike  unprejudiced 


Intelligence 


81 


observers  as  in  this  respect  our  superiors.  Englishmen  do 
not  in  the  least  mind  this,  as  a rule.  An  American  is  per- 
haps less  philosophic.  The  things  of  the  mind  are  more 
esteemed  by  us.  We  have  more  respect  for  professors 
and  “literary  fellows.”  And  although  these  and  their 
congeners  are  more  numerous  in  England,  and  in  quality 
also  “average  higher”  there  no  doubt,  they  certainly 
make  less  impression  upon  the  philistine  mass  which  sur- 
rounds them,  and  are  more  completely  a class  by  them- 
selves than  with  us.  Our  vulgarity  is  of  quite  a different 
type  from  English  vulgarity;  having  no  “brutalized” 
class  below  it,  it  is  less  contemptuous,  and  having  no 
“materialized”  class  above  it,  it  is  not  obsequious  and 
pusillanimous.  It  is  perhaps,  for  these  reasons,  louder, 
more  full  of  swagger,  more  offensive;  but  it  is  manly  and 
intelligent.  Our  rapidly  increasing  leisure  class  is  itself 
felt  to  be  more  conspicuously  lacking  in  other  qualities 
than  intelligence  when  it  is  compared  or,  rather,  con- 
trasted (for  of  course  nothing  can  be  so  compared)  with 
the  British  upper-class.  On  the  whole,  occupied  in  the 
main  as  our  intelligence  may  be  with  purely  material  sub- 
jects, and  ignorant  as  it  may  be  of  the  importance  of  any 
others — deficient,  that  is  to  say,  as  it  may  be  in  culture — 
it  is  nevertheless  one  of  the  great  American  forces,  and  is 
respected  as  such  and  gloried  in.  The  ordinary  English- 
man finds  the  ordinary  American  thin,  sharp,  stridulouS, 
eager,  and  nervous,  but  he  also  unquestionably  finds  him 
clever  as  well;  the  defects  he  notes  are  not  defects  of 
intelligence. 

But  after  all  is  said  that  need  be  said  of  us  in  this 
respect,  and  however  greatly  our  esteem  for  intelligence 
may  excel  that  of  the  English,  the  fact  remains  that  we 
are  in  no  sort  of  danger  of  allowing  this  esteem  to  become 
6 


82 


French  Traits 


excessive.  We  have  nothing  like  the  confidence  in  the 
intelligence  which  the  French  have.  It  is  one  of  our  tools 
in  the  work  of  society  building.  With  the  French  it  is  a 
talisman.  We  do  not  in  a word  begin  to  take  it  as  seri- 
ously as  the  French  do.  The  Frenchman  would  probably 
address  us  on  this  subject  somewhat  in  this  wise:  “Your 
intelligence  is  certainly  agile  and  alert,  especially  when 
compared  with  your  English  cousins’,  but  you  certainly 
exhibit  it  frivolously.  No  extravagance  is  too  great  for 
your  thinking.  You  are  constantly  trying  experiments  in 
thinking,  constructing  for  yourselves  notions  of  this  and 
that — not  at  all  with  reference  to  any  experience,  but 
wilfully.  Moreover,  you  have  an  opinion  upon  every 
imaginable  topic,  and  you  do  not  consider  it  at  all  neces- 
sary to  give  any  substantial  reason  for  it.  You  have,  it 
is  true,  a nervous  dread  of  inconsistency,  and  exercise  a 
great  deal  of  ingenuity  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  it.  But 
the  exercise  of  ingenuity  in  this  way  is  itself  frivolous;  it 
demonstrates  a lack  of  confidence  in  the  intelligence  as 
such,  one  of  whose  chief  qualities  is  flexibility.  Flexible, 
thus,  you  rarely  are,  though  you  are  certainly,  spite  of  all 
your  ingenuity,  not  a little  variable.  And  it  is  not  new 
light,  but  a different  emotion,  which  makes  you  so.  Your 
opinions  are  very  apt  to  be  partis  pris — not,  it  l anglaise , 
out  of  habit  and  tradition,  but  out  of  pure  freak  and 
whim.  You  are  not,  in  our  sense,  sincere.  You  are,  of 
course,  perfectly  honest,  but  in  importing  whim  and  fan- 
tasy into  the  domain  of  pure  intelligence  you  are  not  seri- 
ous; you  are  guilty  of  intellectual  levity.  You  tell  us 
(or,  out  of  caution,  the  habit  of  business  reserve,  civility 
or  what  not,  you  do  not  tell  us)  your  notions  about  our- 
selves, for  example.  You  have,  at  all  events,  no  hesitation 
in  forming  opinions  of  the  most  positive  kind  as  to  our 


Intelligence 


83 


character,  our  manners,  our  art  and  politics.  To  mention 
politics  alone,  you  have  strong  doubts  as  to  the  continu- 
ance of  the  present  republic;  fancy  us  in  danger  of  an- 
archy from  unrestricted  socialist  agitation,  yet  condemn 
our  cruelty  toward  Louise  Michel;  alternately  predict  a 
king  and  a Radical  dictator  for  us;  pronounce  us  grasping 
in  Madagascar,  faithless  in  Tunis,  pusillanimous  in  Egypt; 
attach  weight  to  M.  Rochefort’s  utterances;  anticipate 
cabinet  crises;  become  ‘humorous’  over  the  unexpected 
duration  of  the  present  ministry — all  without  any  such 
acquaintance  with  us,  our  institutions,  history,  and  pres- 
ent condition,  as  would  be  necessary  really  to  justify  you, 
if  you  took  such  matters  seriously,  in  holding  any  notions 
at  all  in  regard  to  us.  You  think  a great  deal.  Your 
intelligence  is  very  active.  But  you  will  forgive  my 
frankness  in  saying  that  it  is,  to  our  sense,  a shade 
lacking  in  self-respect.  Doubtless  you  have  some  other 
touchstone  for  discovering  truth,  of  which  we  are  ignorant, 
or  perhaps  some  substitute  for  truth  itself.  Your  inven- 
tiveness is  immense.  You  are  the  people  of  the  future.” 
The  French  quick-wittedness,  again,  differs  from  our 
own  as  much  as  their  straight-thinking  does.  Clearness 
is  not  more  characteristic  of  French  thought  than  celerity. 
The  constant,  unintermittent  activity  of  the  French  con- 
sciousness assists  powerfully  to  secure  this.  It  keeps  the 
intelligence  free  at  once  from  preoccupation  and  from  dis- 
traction. With  us  the  man  who  sees  quickly  is  apt  not  to 
see  clearly.  He  is  rather  the  man  of  imagination  than 
of  clairvoyance.  He  divines,  guesses,  feels  what  you 
mean.  He  runs  ahead  of  your  thought,  anticipates  it 
wrongly  often,  if  the  data  of  his  augury  as  to  your  prob- 
able meaning  are  insufficient.  Sometimes  he  makes 
ludicrous  errors;  sometimes  he  becomes  very  expert  at 


84 


French  Traits 


concealing  his  misconceptions  and  appearing  acutely  sym- 
pathetic, with  really  very  slight  title  thereto;  his  agility 
of  appreciation  rivals  the  artificially  developed  memory  of 
the  habitual  liar.  But  all  this  is  presence  of  mind  rather 
than  quick-wittedness.  There  is  a perversion  of  the  pure 
intelligence  about  it  that  is  almost  tragic.  Our  truly 
clairvoyant  man  sees  slowly  in  comparison  with  the 
Frenchman,  though  I think  we  may  say  in  comparison 
with  the  Frenchman  alone.  His  solidity  of  character 
gives  him  an  instinctive  dislike,  an  instinctive  mistrust,  of 
fragmentariness.  He  must  first  make  the  circuit  of  any 
object  before  permitting  himself  really  to  perceive  any  of 
its  facets;  he  must  reflect  upon  its  relations  before  he  can 
realize  its  existence.  The  Frenchman  meantime  has  con- 
templated, comprehended,  and  forgotten.  Not  only  is 
his  own  intelligence  singly  developed,  but  he  lives  in  an 
atmosphere  in  which  care  for  the  intelligence  is  almost 
exclusive.  He  is  thus  enabled  to  treat  propositions  by 
themselves.  He  does  not  ask  what  the  propounder  is 
driving  at  in  general,  before  consenting  to  comprehend 
the  specific  statement  at  the  moment.  He  would  not,  for 
example,  before  opening  his  mind  to  the  subject  of  na- 
tional characteristics,  require  to  know  which  ones  were 
personally  preferable  to  the  chronicler  and  commentator. 
In  listening  to  a speech,  in  hearing  a remark,  or  in  read- 
ing a book  or  an  article,  he  never  inquires  what  are  the 
maker  or  author’s  sentiments  or  opinions  on  cognate  car- 
dinal points.  He  is  a stranger  to  impulses  which  impel 
us  to  seek  Mr.  Darwin’s  views  concerning  a future  life  as 
a preliminary  to  even  apprehending  the  principle  of  natu- 
ral selection,  or  the  positive  credo  of  Carlyle  before  enjoy- 
ing Carlyle’s  destructive  criticism  of  Coleridge.  As  to 
any  important  object  of  mental  apprehension,  therefore, 


Intelligence 


85 


his  road  is  much  shorter  and  his  arrival  much  quicker. 
To  him,  at  any  rate,  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  add 
that  this  involves  no  question  of  the  relative  worthiness 
of  the  two  ways  of  seeing  and  thinking. 

But  it  is  only  the  French  that  we  find  especially  quick- 
witted, and  generally  we  reach  France  via  England;  and, 
remembering  Thackeray’s  definition  of  humor  as  “ wit 
and  love,”  we  are  apt  to  express  one  difference  between 
ourselves,  as  Anglo-Saxons,  and  the  French  in  respect  of 
intelligence  as  the  difference  between  humor  and  wit. 
Such  a distinction  is  flattering  to  us,  and  it  is  therefore 
become  classic.  It  has,  however,  to  be  stretched  to  the 
utmost  of  its  elastic  extent  in  candid  hands  to  be  made  to 
apply  in  many  instances,  unless  by  the  “ love,”  which  to 
make  humor  Thackeray  adds  to  wit,  something  more  in- 
tense than  geniality  and  evident  kindliness  is  intended. 
And  more  and  more  this  is  seen  to  be  the  case.  Few 
Anglo-Saxon  critics  nowadays,  of  anything  like  Carlyle’s 
insight,  for  example,  would  be  tempted  to  turn  an  essay 
on  Voltaire,  the  great  destroyer  of  the  old,  bad  order  of 
things,  into  a sermon  on  persiflage.  To  many  French 
writers  it  would  be  impossible  to  deny  the  possession  of  a 
subtle  charm  qualifying  their  unmistakable  wit,  in  a way 
which  renders  it  very  cordial  and  good-humored,  if  not 
humorous.  Merely  “witty,”  in  our  sense  of  the  term, 
they  certainly  are  not.  They  have  an  indubitable  flavor 
which  is,  if  not  genial,  assuredly  kindly.  Where  can  even 
an  Anglo-Saxon  laugh  as  he  can  at  a French  theatre? 
Mirth-provoking  qualities  will,  on  the  French  stage,  ex- 
cuse any  absurdity.  “Say  what  you  like;  I admit  it,” 
M.  Francisque  Sarcey,  the  famous  “Temps”  critic,  re- 
peats a hundred  times,  “ Mais,  c’est  si  amusant;  c’est  si 
amusant!”  An  American  would  so  speak  of  negro-min- 


86 


French  Traits 


strelsv.  “Witty”  is  a wretched  translation  of  spiritnel. 
To  be  spiritnel  is  to  be  witty  in  a spiritual  way.  It  in- 
volves the  active  interposition  of  mind,  and  what  is  known 
as  the  light  touch.  Our  humor  does  not  depend  upon 
lightness  of  touch,  it  need  bardly  be  said.  A genial  imagi- 
nation suffices  in  many  instances.  Often  this  need  only 
be  possessed  by  the  auditor  or  the  reader  to  make  humor 
successful.  Heartiness  on  one  side,  and  good-will,  on  the 
other,  go  far  toward  creating  it  out  of  nothing  sometimes. 
Nothing  will  atone  for  the  lack  of  this  in  our  eyes;  noth- 
ing will  atone  for  the  lack  of  wit  in  French  eyes.  This  at 
least  it  is  fair  to  say.  A Frenchman  would  find  Colonel 
Sellers  as  ennuyeux  as  Paris  found  Dundreary.  An  Anglo- 
Saxon  finds  something  cynical  alloying  the  mirth  of  such 
a masterpiece  as  “Georges  Dandin;”  we  cannot  com- 
fortably enjoy  the  ridicule  of  misfortune  if  it  be  due  to 
stupidity  rather  than  to  moral  error.  '1  he  French  atti- 
tude is  the  exact  converse,  and  the  fact  is  exceedingly 
instructive. 

Hut  the  French  lack  of  sympathy  for  our  humor  does 
not  chiefly  spring  from  the  lack  of  this  element  of  love 
in  French  esprit,  for  which,  indeed,  it  substitutes  a fairly 
satisfactory  geniality;  nor  does  it  proceed  altogether  from 
impatience  with  the  voulu  character  of  this  humor,  with  its 
occasional  heaviness  of  touch,  its  ceaseless  vigilance  for 
opportunities  of  exercise,  its  predominance  of  high  spirits 
over  mental  alertness,  of  body  over  bouquet.  It  is  in  the 
main  due  to  French  dislike  of,  and  perplexity  in  the  pres- 
ence of,  whatever  is  thoroughly  fantastic,  unscrupulously 
exaggerated,  wilfully  obscure.  To  illustrate  this  distinc- 
tion better  definition  of  humor  than  Thackeray's  is 
quoted  by  his  daughter  from  Miss  Anne  Evans,  who  de- 
scribe- ’.t  (wittily,  not  humorously)  as  1 hinking  in  fun, 


Intelligence  87 

while  we  feel  in  earnest.”  Such  procedure  is  in  the  teeth 
of  French  habit  and  tradition — does  violence  to  every 
French  notion  of  right  feeling  and  thinking.  With  them 
thinking  corresponds  as  exactly  to  feeling  as  talking  does 
to  thinking.  This  is  not  at  all  inconsistent  with  the  sub- 
tlest suggestion,  intimation,  and  even  a certain  amount  of 
superficial  indirectness.  Suggestion,  nevertheless,  how- 
ever subtile,  is  always  strictly  and  logically  inferrible 
from  the  statement  which  suggests  and  which  may  itself 
be  so  delicate  as  to  be  easily  missed.  And  however 
superficially  indirect  an  intimation  may  be,  it  is  never 
obscure.  But  we  look  for  the  serious  feeling  beneath  the 
fun  in  French  wit,  and  it  is  only  by  long  practice  that  we 
come  to  perceive  that  there  is  none.  “All  fables  have 
their  morals, ” says  Thoreau  somewhere,  “but  the  inno- 
cent enjoy  the  story.”  In  any  department  of  comedy  the 
French  are  bound  to  seem  to  us  “ innocent  ” in  this  way. 
An  Anglo-Saxon  reading  or  witnessing  Moliere,  and  inevi- 
tably associating  serious  feeling  with  all  merriment  of 
anything  like  such  intellectual  eminence  as  Moliere’s,  is 
sure  to  find  his  amusement  alloyed  with  a certain  dissatis- 
faction. On  the  other  hand,  in  the  presence  of  English 
or  American  humor  the  Frenchman  is  infallibly  at  fault. 
He  is  accustomed  to  the  classification  and  minute  division 
of  a literature  highly  organized  and  elaborately  developed, 
where  wit  and  philosophy  have  each  its  province — as  dis- 
tinctly as  history  and  romance,  which  with  us  are  so  fre- 
quently (and  in  Macaulay’s  view,  it  may  be  remembered, 
so  advantageously)  commingled.  In  the  presence  of  that 
portion  of  our  American  humor  which  is  unaccompanied 
by  any  “feeling  in  earnest,”  and  which  is  so  popular  in 
England,  we  may  perhaps  excuse  his  perplexity,  remem- 
bering his  partiality  for  lightness  of  touch. 


88 


French  Traits 


What  I have  been  saying  is  merely  another  and  a strik- 
ing attestation  of  the  French  sense  for  proportion,  order, 
clearness.  French  wit,  like  everything  else  in  French 
character,  is  exercised  under  scientifically  developed  con- 
ditions. It  is  never  exaggerated  in  such  a way  as  to  lose 
its  strict  character  as  wit.  “Smiling  through  tears,” 
after  the  fashion  of  the  English  comic  muse,  is  little 
characteristic  of  her  French  cousin.  1 he  French  genius 
for  measure  dislikes  uncertainty  and  confusion  as  thor- 
oughly as  Anglo-Saxon  exuberance  dislikes  being  labelled 
and  pigeon-holed.  I hus,  with  all  their  play  of  mind,  the 
French  seem  to  us  literal,  almost  terre-h-terre  at  times— 
their  play  of  mind  is  manifested  within  such  clearly  de- 
fined limits  and  exercised  on  such  carefully  classified  sub- 
jects. They,  in  turn,  find  us  vague,  mystic,  fantastical. 
Our  fondness  for  viewing  things  in  chance  and  passing 
lights  they  share  in  no  degree  whatever.  W hat  they  know 
they  possess.  For  bias,  however  brilliant,  or  imperfect 
vision,  however  luminous,  they  have  a native  repugnance. 
Therefore  we  find  them  frequently  deficient  in  imagina- 
tion, and  thus  even  lacking  in  their  great  specialty  of  ap- 
preciation, apprehension,  acute  observation.  M.  Taine’s 
criticism  of  Carlyle,  for  example,  appears  to  us  the  very 
essence  of  misappreciation.  M.  iaine  is  quite  blind  to 
that  overmastering  side  of  Carlyle’s  genius,  his  humor. 
He  takes  him  too  seriously,  and  not  seriously  enough;  he 
takes  him  literally.  At  once  we  say  to  ourselves,  nothing 
that  this  critic  can  say  of  Carlyle  can  have  real  interest 
and  value.  And  we  err  on  our  side;  M.  Iaine  can  help 
us  to  see  how  necessary  Carlyle’s  genius  is  to  preserve  from 
triviality,  from  merely  passing  interest,  all  that  exaggera- 
tion and  fantasticality  which  are  just  as  characteristic  of 
him  as  his  genius  and  humor. 


Intellige?ice 


89 


On  the  other  hand,  it  is  in  virtue,  rather  than  in  spite 
of  their  distaste  for  mysticism,  that  the  French  display 
such  a rare  quality  for  dealing  with  subjects  whose  native 
realm  is  the  border-land  between  the  positive  and  the 
metaphysical.  Here  their  touch  is  invariably  delicate  and 
intuitively  just.  They  prefer  the  positive;  they  deal  with 
the  metaphysical  positively,  or  not  at  all — witness  Pascal, 
witness  Descartes,  witness  the  deists  of  the  Encyclopaedia, 
witness  Michelet’s  definition  of  metaphysics  as  “ l’art  de 
s’egarer  avec  methode.”  But  they  show  immense  tact, 
which  can  only  come  from  highly  developed  intelligence 
unmixed  with  emotion,  in  treating  that  entire  range  of 
topics  the  truth  concerning  which  seems  so  accessible  and 
is  yet,  as  experience  and  candor  warn  us,  so  elusive — the 
nebulae  lying,  as  it  were,  within  the  penumbra  of  percep- 
tion, neither  quite  outside  its  range  in  the  clear  light,  nor 
wholly  within  the  shadow  where  search  is  as  stimulating 
to  the  imagination  as  it  is  otherwise  barren.  The  field  of 
thought,  where  the  light  touch  is  the  magician’s  wand 
that  opens  the  mind,  though  it  affords  little  actual  sus- 
tenance, and  that  fortifies  the  judgment  in  keeping  it 
within  bounds;  where  plump  statements  and  definite  opin- 
ions are  out  of  place;  where  the  logical  conclusion  is 
divined  to  be  incomplete  and  misleading;  where  scores  of 
practical  questions  concerning  love,  marriage,  manners, 
morals,  criticism  are  to  be  discussed  without  dogmatism, 
and  the  clearest  view  of  them  is  seen  to  have  qualifica- 
tions— the  field,  in  fine,  of  airy  and  avowed  paradox, 
where  any  emotion  is  an  impertinence  and  any  hard  and 
fast  generalization  an  intrusion,  belongs  almost  wholly  to 
the  French.  This  field  they  never  mistake  for  the  posi- 
tive. They  are  no  more  unconsciously  vague  here  than 
in  the  positive  field.  They  treat  fancifulness  fancifully. 


9° 


French  Traits 


They  preserve  all  their  perspicacity  in  dealing  with  it. 
Some  refinement  of  the  intelligence  secures  them  against 
the  imposition  of  illusion,  and  enables  them  to  enjoy  and 
illustrate  its  art. 

The  passion  for  clearness  appears  nowhere  more  mani- 
fest than  in  the  French  language  itself,  the  clearness  of 
which  is  a commonplace.  It  is  for  this  reason,  rather 
than  because  it  is  the  earliest  settled  European  idiom, 
and  because  of  French  preponderance  in  European  affairs, 
that  it  is  the  language  of  diplomacy.  It  is  impossible  to 
be  at  once  correct  and  obscure  in  French.  Expressed  in 
French,  a proposition  cannot  be  ambiguous.  Any  given 
collocation  of  words  has  a significance  that  is  certain. 
Permutation  of  words  means  a change  of  ideas.  Spanish 
may  have  more  rhetorical  variety;  English  a choice  be- 
tween poetic  and  prose  phraseology;  German  may  state 
or,  rather,  “shadow  forth”  more  profundity;  Italian  be 
“ richer,”  as  the  Italians,  who  find  themselves  constrained 
in  French,  are  always  saying;  the  synthetic  languages 
may  express  more  concisely  certain  nuances  of  thought 
and  feeling.  None  of  them  is  so  precise  as  the  French. 
And  this  is  far  from  being  felt  as  a defect  by  the  French 
themselves.  One  of  Victor  Hugo’s  chief  titles  to  fame  is 
his  accomplishment  in  moulding  the  French  language  to 
his  thought,  in  developing  its  elasticity  by  making  it  say 
new  things.  'This  is  indeed,  perhaps,  the  only  one  of  his 
accomplishments  that  may  be  called  unique.  It  is  univer- 
sally ascribed  by  Frenchmen  to  the  miracle  of  Hugo’s 
genius.  Except  Gautier,  the  other  romanticists,  even, 
whatever  violence  they  did  to  traditions  of  propriety, 
worked  with  the  old,  time-honored  tools.  Alfred  de 
Musset  and  Keats  are  often  compared.  They  have  in- 
deed many  traits  in  common.  English  stylists,  admitting 


Intelligence  9 1 

at  once  with  Mr.  Lowell  that  Keats  is  “ overlanguaged,  ” 
nevertheless  do  not  hesitate  to  find  in  his  luxuriant  free- 
dom, and  even  his  license  of  tropical  intensity,  one  of  his 
most  distinguished  merits.  In  Musset’s  case  a French 
critic,  who  “hesitates  less  and  less,”  he  says,  to  term 
Musset  the  greatest  of  French  poets,  is  specially  im- 
pressed by  the  correctness,  the  propriety,  of  Musset’s 
diction,  the  grace  and  power  which  he  exhibits  within  the 
lines  of  conventional  grammar.  Boileau  could  reproach 
him  with  nothing.  His  past  definites — where  Racine  him- 
self is  weak — are  all  right.  In  other  words,  his  precision 
is  faultless;  and  whereas  this  would  be  nothing  in  a mere 
grammarian,  in  a poet  of  Musset’s  spiritual  quality  it  is 
deemed  a merit  simply  transcendent — so  easy  is  it  to  give 
the  reins  to  one’s  afflatus,  and  so  be  hurried  beyond  the 
limits  of  that  perfection  of  style  which,  whatever  else  may 
be  present,  is  absolutely  essential  to  the  truest  distinction. 
One  sees  at  once  how  different  the  point  of  view  is  from 
our  own.  One  appreciates  how  the  French  language 
itself,  with  such  an  ideal  as  this,  conduces  to  the  measure 
of  the  French  temperament,  the  clearness  of  the  French 
mind. 

“ La  Raison,’’  says  Voltaire,  “ n’est  pas  prolixe.’’  And 
whether  or  no  the  literature  in  which  this  admirably  clear 
language  is  embodied  be  as  important  to  mankind  as  other 
modern  literatures,  the  most  superficial  study  of  it  reveals 
the  source  of  that  terseness,  for  which  it  is  known,  even  of 
the  ignorant,  to  be  remarkable,  in  its  devotion  to  the  quali- 
ties of  the  intelligence  rather  than  to  those  of  the  imagina- 
tion. Inspired  by  and  appealing  to  the  intelligence  more 
exclusively  than  any  other  literature,  it  rarely  sins  by 
elaborateness,  which  is  due  to  the  dross  of  thought,  or  by 
an  abruptness  and  inelegance  whose  conciseness  is  by  no 


92 


French  Traits 


means  inconsistent  with  obscurity.  It  is  thus  full  without 
being  fragmentary.  Inelasticity  of  form  is  not  a concom- 
itant of  its  condensation  of  substance.  It  is  neither  vague 
in  idea  nor  ejaculatory  in  expression.  Born  a French- 
man, Emerson,  who  would  surely  lose  no  essential  con- 
ciseness in  a larger  sweep  and  freer  flow  of  phrase,  would 
have  been  as  great  a writer  as  he  is  a thinker.  As  for 
that  fulness  which  is  rather  over-explicit  than  fragmen- 
tary, and  which  is  indeed  rather  thinness  than  fulness, 
which  in  every  relation  but  that  of  teacher  and  pupil  is  so 
relentlessly  fatiguing,  and  of  which  we  enjoy  a surfeit  in 
pulpit,  platform,  press,  periodical,  and  private  conversa- 
tion, it  simply  does  not  exist  in  France.  Such  analogues 
of  it  as  do  exist  are  rewarded  with  the  esteem  in  which  all 
bores  are  held  in  a country  whose  nightmare  is  ennui. 
Nothing  says  more  for  French  intelligence.  Nothing  says 
more  for  our  own  preference  of  instruction  to  intelligence 
than  the  opposite  attitude  on  our  part,  which  prompts  the 
acceptance  of  much  that  is  stale  and  flat  in  the  hope  that 
somehow  it  may  be  found  not  wholly  unprofitable. 

And  French  definiteness,  like  any  other  illustration  of 
rounded  and  complete  perfection,  has  great  charm  for 
persons  of  a quite  different  temperament  and  training, 
'l  ake  as  an  instance,  among  the  multitude  it  would  be 
easy  to  cite,  the  conspicuous  one  of  so  thorough  an  Eng- 
lishman as  Mr.  John  Morley  in  his  character  of  publicist 
and  critic.  The  direct  influence  of  French  Encyclopaedism 
upon  European  thought  has  perhaps  ceased  to  be  power- 
ful; but  as  one  of  the  chief  lights  of  that  English  school 
whose  performance  is  probably  mainly  responsible  for  the 
late  Karl  Hillebrand’s  opinion  that  the  English  at  present 
enjoy  the  intellectual  supremacy  in  Europe,  Mr.  John 
Morley  is  an  interesting  illustration  of  the  indirect  influ- 


Intelligence 


93 


ence  which  the  methods  and  mental  habits  of  French 
rationalism  still  exert.  Spite  of  a thoroughly  English  tem- 
perament and  training,  Mr.  John  Morley’s  study  of  the 
French  rationalistic  epoch,  upon  which  he  is  the  authority 
in  English,  induces  him  to  find  it  “ a really  singular  trait  ” 
in  Burke  that  “to  him  there  actually  was  an  element  of 
mystery  in  the  cohesion  of  men  in  societies,  in  political 
obedience,  in  the  sanctity  of  contract.”  This  is  certainly 
a striking  instance  of  the  potency  of  the  French  influence 
in  favor  of  clearness.  But  we  have  all  felt  its  power  and 
the  exhilaration  which  comes  from  submitting  to  it — all 
of  us  who  have  come  in  contact  with  it.  There  is  some- 
thing stimulating  to  the  faculties  in  withdrawing  them 
from  exercise  in  the  twilight  of  mysticism  and  setting 
them  in  motion  in  the  clear  day,  and,  to  cite  Mr.  Morley 
again,  upon  “ matter  which  is  not  known  at  all  unless  it  is 
known  distinctly.”  About  many  things  and  in  many  ways 
a man  fond  of  France  and  French  traits  easily  gets  into 
the  same  mode  of  thinking.  Yet  there  is  hardly  anything 
less  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  genius  than  this 
purely  rationalistic  habit  of  mind.  We  are,  as  a rule,  a 
thousand  times  nearer  to  Burke  than  to  his  critic  in  native 
sympathy,  and  the  idea  that  there  is  actually  an  element 
of  mystery  in  the  cohesion  of  men  in  societies  seems  far 
from  singular  to  us.  We  not  only  have  a tendency  toward 
the  mysticism  so  foreign  to  the  French  mind  and  temper, 
but  we  maintain  as  a distinctly  held  tenet  the  wisdom  of 
taking  account  of  the  unaccountable,  and  find  French 
completeness  incomplete  in  this,  to  our  notion,  vitally  im- 
portant regard.  But  it  would  be  difficult  to  convince  a 
Frenchman  of  this  wisdom.  The  rationality  of  consider- 
ing only  those  phenomena  of  which  the  origin  and  laws 
are  discoverable,  of  eliminating  the  element  of  confusion 


94 


French  Traits 


introduced  into  every  discussion  by  taking,  with  Words- 
worth, “ blank  misgivings  ” for  “ the  fountain-light  of  all 
our  day,”  accords  with  his  notion  of  wisdom  far  more 
closely.  Cardinal  Newman’s  remark,  which  we  find  so 
happy,  to  the  effect  that  after  you  have  once  defined  your 
terms,  and  cleared  your  ground,  all  argument  is  either 
needless  or  useless,  seems  to  him  curiously  amiss.  Then, 
he  thinks,  is  the  very  time  for  argument,  when  the  terms 
have  been  defined  and  the  ground  cleared,  so  that  candor 
and  clairvoyance  may  without  obstruction  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  those  natural  or  social  phenomena  which  will 
always  seem  different  to  different  minds  until,  in  this  way, 
the  science  of  them  is  attained.  “ But  you  are  not  in 
search  of  the  science  of  things,  you  others,”  he  adds;  “ in 
virtue  of  your  turn  for  poetry  and  your  love  of  mysticism 
you  are,  as  your  Wordsworth  says,  ‘ creatures  moving 
about  in  worlds  not  realized,’  where  argument  is  either 
useless  or  needless;  and  when  you  do  descend  to  the  prac- 
tical and  the  actual  your  mysticism  accompanies  you  even 
into  this  realm;  and  even  in  occupying  yourselves  with  so 
actual  and  practical  a matter  as  social  and  political  reform 
you  refuse,  with  your  Burke,  to  consider  man’s  nature 
except  as  ‘ modified  by  his  habits,’  which,  in  your  fancy, 
have  some  mysterious  sanction.  You  wonder  that  we 
know  so  little  of  your  greatest  modern  poet  and  your 
greatest  publicist.  In  literal  truth  they  can  be  of  no  ser- 
vice to  us.  They  are  too  irrational  themselves,  and  they 
are  too  contemptuous  of  merely  rational  forces.”  There 
is  indeed  little  in  either  Burke  or  Wordsworth  to  appeal 
to  the  French  mind,  and  the  fact  itself  is  as  significant  as 
a chapter  of  analysis. 

Let  us  not  take  Burke  or  Wordsworth  as  witness  of  the 
insufficiency  of  the  human  intelligence,  however.  Let  us 


Ijitelligence 


95 


take  the  clairvoyant  Frenchman  himself,  and  let  us  select 
two  such  wholly  different  witnesses  as  the  late  Ximen^s 
Doudan  and  M.  Taine — the  sympathetic  and  the  scientific 
critic,  the  esprit  delicat  and  the  incisive  and  erudite  scholar. 
They  are  quite  in  accord.  “We  cannot  get  along  with- 
out vague  ideas,  and  an  able  man  who  has  only  clear  ideas 
is  a fool  who  will  never  discover  anything,”  says  M.  Dou- 
dan. “When  the  Frenchman  conceives  an  object,”  says 
M.  Taine,  “ he  conceives  it  quickly  and  distinctly,  but  he 
does  not  perceive  it  as  it  really  is,  complex  and  entire. 
He  sees  portions  of  it  only,  and  his  perception  of  it  is  dis- 
cursive and  superficial.”  Thus,  even  in  the  sphere  of  the 
intelligence,  we  find  that  discovery  and  perception  are  not 
always,  even  in  French  eyes,  the  fruits  of  French  clairvoy- 
ance. Nevertheless,  nothing  is  more  idly  self-indulgent 
for  us  whose  defects  lie  in  quite  other  directions  than  to 
dwell  on  the  defect  of  the  French  quality  of  clearness; 
the  French  criticisms  of  clearness  themselves,  while  they 
illustrate  the  quality  in  being  made  at  all,  and  thus  tri- 
umphing over  prejudice,  may  be  said  to  illustrate  also  its 
defect  in  being  a little  too  simple  and  definite.  Truth 
never  shows  herself  to  mortals  except  by  glimpses;  con- 
centration and  intensity  of  attention  at  these  moments 
tend  to  create  forgetfulness  of  their  number  and  variety — 
that  is,  perhaps,  all  we  can  truthfully  say.  It  may  be  im- 
possible to  be  clear  without  being  limited,  but  it  is  entirely 
possible  to  be  limited  without  being  clear.  Limitation 
belongs  rather  to  the  conscious  exclusion  of  essentially 
vague  topics;  clearness,  to  the  unconscious  operation  of 
the  spirit  of  order  and  system.  “Clearness,”  says  M. 
Doudan  himself,  “not  only  helps  us  to  make  ourselves 
understood;  it  serves  also  as  a demonstration  to  ourselves 
that  we  are  not  being  led  astray  by  confused  conceptions.” 


96 


French  Traits 


When  we  consider  much  of  our  over-subtle  writing,  two 
things  are  plain — first,  that  there  is  an  unintelligent  awk- 
wardness of  expression,  and,  second,  that  there  is  an  unin- 
telligent confusion  of  ideas.  Reduced  to  coherence,  the 
meaning  is  often  discovered  to  be  very  simple.  And  the 
meaning  is,  after  all,  what  is  significant.  Yet  the  emotion 
associated  with  its  discovery  has  so  heated  and  fused  a 
fancied  new  truth  that  it  is  distorted  to  the  writer’s  own 
view,  and  he  sees  it  far  larger  than  it  is — he  sees  it  unin- 
telligently.  French  writing  is  so  different  from  ours  in 
this  regard — it  is  such  easy  reading,  in  a word — that, 
recalling  Sheridan’s  “ mot,”  we  are  forced  to  perceive 
that  it  may  have  been  hard  writing,  after  all,  instead  of 
merely  due  to  limited  vision.  About,  in  his  “Alsace,” 
prettily  reminds  Sarcey  of  a time  when  he  had  not  “ le 
travail  facile,  I’esprit  rapide,  et  la  main  sdre  comme 
aujourd’hui. ” M.  Sarcey’s  style  is  limpidity  itself;  and 
when  we  consider  what  ideas,  what  nuances , what  infinite 
delicacy,  are  disguised  in  this  limpidity,  and  in  that  of 
others  comparable  to  it,  we  can  see  that  French  clearness 
by  no  means  necessarily  means  limitation,  but  implies  a 
prodigious  amount  of  work  done,  of  rubbish  cleared  away, 
a long  journey  of  groping  victoriously  concluded,  and 
the  slough  in  which  our  over-subtlety  is  still  struggling 
left  far  behind.  Clearness!  Do  we  not  all  know  what  a 
badge  of  intelligence  it  is;  how  wearily  we  strive  to  attain 
it;  how  depressingly  we  fail;  how,  when  we  succeed,  we 
feel  a consciousness  of  triumph  and  of  power?  Admit  its 
limitations.  The  French  apotheosis  of  intellect  has  its 
weak  side.  But  it  argues  an  ideal  that  is  immensely  at- 
tractive because  it  is  perfectly  distinct. 


CHAPTER  IV 


SENSE  AND  SENTIMENT 

So  that  “after  all,”  as  M.  Taine  says,  “in  France  the 
chief  power  is  intellect.”  More  specifically,  however,  one 
is  tempted  to  add,  it  is  good-sense.  Good-sense  is  uni- 
versal. There  is  no  national  trait  more  salient  in  every 
individual.  One  comprehends  Franklin’s  French  popu- 
larity; his  incarnation  of  good-sense  inevitably  suggested 
to  the  Parisians  the  propriety  of  divine  honors.  Measure 
is  a French  passion.  Excess,  even  of  virtue,  is  distinctly 
disagreeable  to  the  French  nature.  Philinte’s  line  in  “ Le 
Misanthrope,  ” 

“ Et  veut  que  l’on  soit  sage  avec  sobriete,” 

defines  the  national  feeling  in  this  regard  with  precision. 
Exaggeration,  exaltation,  the  fanatic  spirit,  are  extremely 
rare.  Temperance  is  the  almost  universal  rule  in  speech, 
demeanor,  taste,  and  habits.  Nothing  is  less  French  than 
eccentricity.  The  normal  attitude  is  equipoise.  Any 
shock  to  this  Frenchmen  instinctively  dislike.  The  un- 
known has  few  attractions  for  them.  The  positive  and 
systematic  ordering  of  the  known  absorbs  their  attention. 
Their  gayety  itself  is  consciously  hygienic.  Pleasure  is 
their  constant  occupation  mainly  because  they  can  extract 
it  out  of  everything,  and  make  it  such  an  avowed  motive. 
But  that  intensification  of  pleasure  which,  either  by  attain- 
ing  joy  and  bliss,  on  the  one  hand,  or  degenerating  into 
7 


98 


French  Traits 


riot,  on  the  other,  involves  a complete  surrender  of  one’s 
self  to  impulse,  they  rarely  experience.  They  organize 
their  amusement,  and  take  it  deliberately.  lhey  cultivate 
carefully  a capacity  for  enjoyment.  They  strike  us  as, 
one  and  all,  calculators.  They  leave  nothing  to  chance, 
and  trust  the  unforeseen  so  little  that  the  unexpected  dis- 
concerts them.  They  are  alert  rather  than  spontaneous. 
To  our  recklessness  they  appear  to  coddle  themselves,  but 
we  speedily  discern  that  in  nothing  is  their  good-sense 
more  salutary;  they  conceive  hygiene  as  we  do  therapeu- 
tics. Similarly  with  their  economy,  which  is  conspicuous 
and  all-pervading.  If  you  are  bent  on  pleasure,  a frugal 
mind  is  a necessity.  Frugality  is  noticeable  everywhere. 
It  is  the  source  of  the  self-respect  of  the  poor;  it  keeps 
Paris  purged  of  slums;  it  decorates  respectability,  and 
sobers  wealth;  it  enables  the  entire  community  to  get  the 
utmost  out  of  life.  Economy  extends  even  into  the  man- 
ner of  eating.  Les  Americains  g&chent  tout  is  a frequent 
French  reflection  upon  our  neglect  of  the  gravy  and  lack 
of  thoroughness  in  the  matter  of  mutton-chops.  With 
them  good-sense  triumphs  over  grace  itself.  In  dress, 
economy  is  as  common  as  sobriety  of  taste.  French- 
women would  no  more  pay  for,  than  they  would  wear, 
our  dresses.  Frenchmen  make  the  opera-hat  do  duty  in 
the  afternoon  promenade,  and  would  resent  the  rigor  of 
our  “spring  and  fall  styles.” 

This  wide-spread  diffusion  of  good-sense  has,  however, 
one  inevitable  concomitant — namely,  a corresponding  de- 
ficiency of  sentiment.  So  preponderant  is  rationality  in 
the  French  nature  that  Frenchmen  strike  us,  sometimes, 
as  a curious  compound  of  the  Quaker  and  the  Hebrew. 
We  are  used  to  less  alertness,  to  more  relaxation.  Bathos, 
enervation  are  foreign  to  their  atmosphere,  and  are  speed- 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


99 


ily  transformed  amid  its  bracing  breezes.  But  it  is  impos- 
sible to  be  so  completely  unsentimental  as  the  French  are 
without  missing  some  of  the  quality  of  which  sentimen- 
tality is  really  but  the  excess.  The  perfume  of  this  they 
certainly  miss.  There  are  characters  in  Anglo-Saxondom 
— not  to  seek  the  Gemiithlichkeit  of  Germany — that  are 
completely  penetrated  with  this  fine  aroma.  Neither  are 
they  rare;  every  man’s  acquaintance  includes  such.  Their 
lives  are  full  of  a sweet,  indefinable  charm.  Whatever  the 
exterior,  and  often  it  is  rugged  and  forbidding,  the  real 
nature  within  glows  with  a delightful  and  temperate  fervor 
that  irradiates  everywhere  the  circle  in  which  they  exist 
and  move.  Whatever,  indeed,  the  intellectual  fibre  or 
equipment,  the  “mellow  fruitfulness”  of  disposition  and 
demeanor  is  potently  seductive.  Still  further,  one  may 
find  the  quality  in  question  illuminating  and  rendering 
subtly  attractive  most  deviously  tortuous  moral  imperfec- 
tions. And  in  France  this  quality  hardly  exists.  In  very 
few  varieties  of  French  type  is  it  to  be  found,  even  in  dilu- 
tion. Even  then  it  is  apt  to  be  imported.  Rousseau  was 
Swiss,  and  his  heart  and  imagination  had  been  touched  by 
the  deep  colors  and  mysterious  spaces  of  the  Jura  with  a 
magic  which  it  is  vain  to  seek  under  the  gray  skies  of 
Northern,  or  amid  the  “ sunburnt  mirth,”  the  “ dance  and 
Provenqal  song,”  of  Southern  Gaul.  Passionately  patri- 
otic as  was  the  chief  of  Rousseau’s  successors,  it  is  un- 
doubtedly to  her  Northern  blood  that  she  owes  her  senti- 
ment. About  her  French  side,  the  side  which  came  to  the 
surface  chiefly  in  her  life,  as  the  other  did  in  her  books, 
there  was,  if  we  may  believe  M.  Paul  de  Musset  and  other 
chroniqueurs , very  little  sentiment  indeed.  In  any  event 
it  is  an  exception,  and  not  a type,  that  George  Sand  illus- 
trates as  a Frenchwoman.  Her  great  contemporary,  Bab 


IOO 


French  Traits 


zac,  remarkable  and  original  as  he  was,  is  a thousand 
times  more  French.  But  it  is  idle  to  cite  instances.  After 
all  one  may  say  of  the  De  Guerins,  of  Senancour,  of  Jou- 
bert,  Doudan,  Renan,  the  fact  remains  that  the  French  one 
meets,  the  people  we  mean  when  we  think  of  Frenchmen, 
the  great  mass  of  the  nation  and  its  characteristic  racial 
types,  strike  our  Anglo-Saxon  sense  too  sharply  and 
clearly,  with  too  ringing  and  vibrant  a note,  to  appear  to 
us  otherwise  than  distinctly,  integrally,  and  ineradicably 
unsentimental.  It  is  this  principally,  I think,  which  makes 
the  Anglo-Saxon  feel  so  little  at  home  in  France — that  is 
to  say,  the  Anglo-Saxon  who  does  thus  feel,  and  who,  I 
suspect,  is  in  the  majority.  Paris  is  certainly  very  agree- 
able. Americans  especially,  having  none  of  the  jealousy 
of  French  institutions  which  makes  a Tory  of  the  most 
liberal  Englishman  while  he  is  in  Paris,  find  all  sorts  of 
agrements  there  as  well  as  en  province . But  it  is  notorious 
that  of  both  those  who  merely  make  Hying  visits,  and 
those  who  form  the  American  colony  and  move  about  in 
its  rather  narrow  circle,  there  are  very  few  who  come  into 
close  contact  with  Frenchmen  or  make  acquaintances  of 
any  degree  of  intimacy  among  them.  And  both  to  the 
few  who  do  and  to  the  many  who  do  not  come  to  know 
them  well,  I suppose  that  French  people  are  not,  in  gen- 
eral, acutely  sympathetic. 

The  reason  is  not  the  difference  in  manners  or  in  morals. 
Italian  mccurs  are  as  unlike  American  as  are  French  habits 
and  character.  There  are  a dozen  points  of  reciprocity 
between  Frenchmen  and  ourselves  which  do  not  exist  be- 
tween us  and  the  rest  of  the  Latin  race.  Indeed,  from 
our  excessively  industrial  point  of  view,  it  seems  as  if  it 
were  only  since  1870  that  the  Italians  had  belonged  to  the 
modern  world  at  all — that  world  of  which,  from  the  same 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


IOI 


point  of  view,  we  are  the  present  light  and  the  future 
hope.  Yet  I do  not  doubt  that  nine  out  of  every  ten 
travelling  Americans  find  the  Italians  more  sympathetic, 
and  that  those  who  cross  the  Pyrenees  get  a more  cordial 
feeling  for  the  Spaniards.  The  reason  is  that  the  moral 
atmosphere  south  of  the  Pyrenees  and  the  Alps  is  satu- 
rated with  sentiment.  As,  journeying  northward,  one 
passes  into  the  vine-clad  prairie  of  Languedoc,  or  into  the 
rose-decked  arbor  of  Provence,  one  exchanges  the  deep 
Iberian  tone  and  intense  color,  and  the  soft  sweetness  and 
suave  grace  which  but  gather  substance  without  changing 
character  in  their  crescendo  from  Naples  to  Turin,  for  a 
flood  of  bright  light  and  clear  freshness  that  fall  somewhat 
chill  on  American  relaxation.  One  exchanges  the  air  of 
sentimental  expansion  for  that  of  mental  exhilaration,  and 
only  when  some  definite  work  is  to  be  done  do  we,  in  gen- 
eral, enjoy  external  bracing  of  this  sort.  And  in  France, 
where  industry,  sobriety,  measure,  good-sense,  hold  re- 
morselessly unremittent  sway,  where  the  chronic  state  of 
mind  seems  to  him  keyed  up  to  the  emergency  standard, 
where  no  one  is  idle  in  Lamb’s  sense,  where  day-dreams 
are  unknown  and  pleasure  is  an  action  rather  than  a state, 
where  “merely  to  bask  and  ripen”  is  rarely  “the  stu- 
dent’s wiser  business” — where,  in  a word,  everything  in 
the  moral  sphere  appears  terribly  dynamic,  the  American 
inevitably  feels  himself  somewhat  at  sea. 

We  have,  of  course,  our  unsentimental  man,  but  he 
differs  essentially  from  the  Frenchman.  He  is  practical, 
pragmatical — his  enemies  are  inclined  to  add,  pharisaical. 
To  any  one  of  a radically  different  intellectual  outfit  he  is 
intensely  unsympathetic.  He  constantly  expresses  or 
betrays  scorn  for  sentiment,  which  he  associates  with 
weakness  of  character;  and  for  weakness  of  character  he 


102 


Fre?ich  Traits 


has  nothing  but  contempt.  Yet  it  is  plain  that  he  has,  at 
bottom,  more  sentiment  than  the  most  sentimental  French- 
man. His  contempt  for  sentimentality,  in  fact,  is  thor- 
oughly sentimental,  and  due  to  an  instinctive  dread  of 
cheapening  a force  and  a consolation  which  he  secretly 
cherishes  and  jealously  guards.  And  the  contrast  is  as 
marked  among  the  vicious  as  among  the  virtuous  or  along 
the  commonplace  level  of  respectable  merit.  The  well- 
known  association  of  Thackeray’s  Rebecca  with  Balzac’s 
Valerie  Marneffe,  by  which  M.  Taine  illustrates  radical 
differences  in  the  art  of  the  respective  authors,  serves 
better  still,  to  my  sense,  to  mark  the  radical  difference  in 
respect  of  sentiment  between  the  French  and  English 
variants  of  the  same  type.  Madame  Marneffe  is  far  less 
complex,  far  colder,  more  deliberately  designing,  more 
cynical,  less  remorseful.  She  is  cleverer  and  infinitely 
more  charming,  to  be  sure,  but  the  charm  is  wholly  exter- 
nal. Rebecca’s  perversion  is  deeper,  because  her  nature 
is  more  emotional.  She  is  a hypocrite  in  a sense  and  to 
a degree  that  would  undoubtedly  surprise  Madame  Mar- 
neffe, about  whom  there  is  no  cant  at  all.  Her  circum- 
stances develop  none.  Her  victims  succumbed  to  other 
weapons.  The  absence  of  cant  is  itself  unfavorable  to 
sentiment,  from  which,  at  all  events,  cant  is  inseparable — 
an  invariable  excrescence,  if  not  in  one  form  or  another 
and  to  some  degree  a more  integral  accompaniment.  As 
a matter  of  fact,  the  social  naturalist  infers  it  where  senti- 
ment is  found  in  luxuriant  growth,  and  from  its  absence 
argues  the  certain  presence  of  cynicism.  No  two  things 
are  more  reciprocally  hostile  than  cynicism  and  cant,  un- 
less it  be  cynicism  and  sentiment.  We  come  logically, 
thus,  to  find  the  absence  of  sentiment,  involved  in  the 
French  freedom  from  cant,  express  itself  in  what  strikes 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


103 


the  Anglo-Saxon  as  positive  cynicism.  Examples  are 
abundant  in  contemporary  literature.  The  Parisian 
widow  of  his  “Four  Meetings,” — one  of  Mr.  Henry 
James’s  masterpieces,  and  designated  by  him,  with  ma- 
licious felicity,  “ quelque  chose  de  la  vieille  Europe” — 
surpasses  Madame  Marneffe;  but  easily  the  mistress  of 
both,  and  here  a marvel  of  pertinence,  is  the  inimitable, 
the  irresistible  Madame  Cardinal. 

“ Who  has  not  the  inestimable  advantage,”  says  Thack- 
eray, “ of  possessing  a Mrs.  Nickleby  in  his  own  family?” 
Morals  apart,  what  French  family,  one  may  inquire  in  a 
similarly  loose  and  approximate  spirit,  cannot  boast  at 
least  a distant  connection  with  Madame  Cardinal  ? This 
creation  of  M.  Ludovic  Halevy  merits  the  high  praise  of 
association  with  Mrs.  Nickleby.  Morals  apart,  she  is 
quite  as  frequent  a French  type  as  Mrs.  Nickleby  is  an 
Anglo-Saxon  one;  and  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  she  is  as 
unmixed  an  embodiment  of  sense  as  Mrs.  Nickleby  is  of 
sensibility.  There  is  a side  of  French  nature,  and  of 
French  nature  alone,  which  Madame  Cardinal  illustrates  in 
an  eminent  degree  and  with  a desinvolture  that  is  delight- 
fully indiscreet.  In  his  Academy  address  of  welcome  to 
M.  Halevy,  M.  Pailleron  spoke  with  sternness  of  the 
Cardinal  menage , and  praised  its  chronicler  as  a moralist. 
But  for  a foreigner  the  moral  is  evident  enough  without 
insistence  upon  it,  and  the  point  of  her  portrait — aside 
from  its  exquisite  technic — is  not  that  Madame  Cardinal 
is  deeply  perverted,  but  that  she  is  national.  She  is 
national  to  this  extent,  that  in  the  vast  majority  of  her 
compatriots  who  are,  in  correctness  of  conduct  and  re- 
spectability of  position,  wholly  removed  from  her  sphere, 
who  are  as  worthy  as  she  is  scandalous,  there  is,  neverthe- 
less, something  acutely  sympathetic  with  that  trait  of  her 


French  Traits 


104 

character  in  virtue  of  which  her  rationality  infallibly  tri- 
umphs over  the  subtlest  attacks  of  sentiment.  Strictly 
from  the  point  of  view  of  sentiment,  we  may  say,  I think, 
that  the  average  Frenchman  makes  the  same  impression 
on  us  that  she  probably  makes  on  the  average  Frenchman. 

lie  the  situation  never  so  sentimental,  it  never  over- 
powers her  omnipresent  good-sense.  La  sante  avant  tout 
is  not  only  her  watchword,  but  that  of  millions  of  her 
countrymen.  It  is  as  potent  to  conjure  with  as  the  Mar- 
seillaise— and  in  the  same  way;  one  would  say  it  aroused 
the  same  kind  of  feeling.  The  famous  scene  at  table  on 
Good-Friday,  when  Madame  Cardinal  takes  a hand  in  the 
conversation,  and  brings  the  most  delicate  and  elusive 
topics  into  the  cold,  relentless  light  of  reason,  is  exquisite 
comedy,  but  it  is  satire  as  well.  This  brief  two  pages  of 
genre  will  live  as  long  as  any  masterpiece  of  the  kind  in 
literature,  but  its  interest  is  not  merely  artistic.  It  is  a 
contemporary  national  document  of  the  first-class,  beside 
which  M.  Zola's  are  often  trite  and  superficial.  I here  are 
present  M.  and  Madame  Cardinal,  their  two  daughters,  both 
danse  uses  at  the  Opera,  and  the  Italian  marquis,  who  has  a 
wife  and  children  in  Italy,  but  who  prefers  living  with  the 
elder  Mademoiselle  Cardinal  in  Paris-an  arrangement 
secured  by  the  maternal  solicitude  of  Madame  Cardinal 
herself.  Frequent  quarrels  disturb  the  serenity  of  this 
interior,  however,  despite  the  exclusively  practical  and 
unsentimental  origin  of  the  relationship.  ’I  he  marquis  is 
reactionary.  M.  Cardinal  is  radical.  The  occasion  o 
Good-Friday  provokes  a clerical  discussion.  M.  Cardinal 
abuses  priests.  The  marquis  forbids  him  to  speak  ill  of 
‘his  religion,  announcing  that  he  is  a Catholic  and  has  two 
bishops  in  his  family.  " Tenez,"  breaks  in  Madame  Car- 
dinal, " vous  nous  fades  piti*  avec  votre  religion!  Ayez 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


io5 


done  de  la  morale  avant  d’avoir  de  la  religion. 
Comment,  voila  un  homme  marie,  qui  a une  femme,  trois 
enfants,  qui  laisse  tout  9a  vegeter  en  Italie  pour  venir 
vivre  a Paris  avec  une  danseuse.  Et  puis  il  parle  de  ses 
sentiments  religieux.  Non,  vrai!  9a  me  coupe  l’appetit;” 
— “ See  here,  you  make  us  perfectly  sick  with  your  reli- 
gion! Get  some  morality  before  having  so  much  religion. 

What!  a married  man  with  a wife  and  three  chil- 
dren who  lets  all  that  vegetate  in  Italy,  while  he  himself 
comes  to  Paris  to  live  with  an  opera-dancer.  And  he 
talks  about  his  religious  sentiments!  It  spoils  my  appe- 
tite.” Sentimentally  speaking,  this  has  the  sublime  irrele- 
vance of  Mrs.  Nickleby’s  common-sense.  Otherwise  con- 
sidered, it  is  the  very  acme  of  sense,  reached  under  what, 
to  any  one  but  Madame  Cardinal,  would  be  extremely  dis- 
couraging conditions.  How  great  must  be  the  tension 
and  how  constant  the  alertness  in  which  it  is  necessary  to 
keep  the  purely  intellectual  faculties  in  order  not  to  be 
distracted  from  impulsively  denouncing  in  another  the 
contemptible  conduct  for  which  you  have  rendered  your- 
self expressly  responsible  by  far  greater  baseness.  In 
what  a pitiful  light  does  the  sentimental  marquis  appear 
beside  this  victorious  imperviousness  to  the  sophisms  of 
mere  delicatesse!  His  exculpatory  talk  about  his  wife’s 
wrongs  toward  him  takes  away  our  appetite  as  well  as  that 
of  Madame  Cardinal.  As  Perichole  says,  “ Oui,  bonnes 
gens,  sautez  dessus;”  he  is,  in  effect,  “ par  trop  bete.” 

It  is,  indeed,  very  noticeable  that  the  social  circum- 
stances responsible  for  the  evolution  of  such  creatures  as 
the  Cardinals  should  have  succeeded  in  debasing  merely 
the  emotional  side  of  their  nature.  The  will  is  not  ener- 
vated, the  conscience  is  doubtless  readjusted  rather  than 
repudiated  altogether,  and  the  mental  faculties  are,  to  a 


io6 


French  Traits 


perfectly  sane  sense,  perhaps,  abnormally  developed.  No 
one  would  think  of  calling  Madame  Cardinal  bete.  She 
has  the  whole  jargon  of  sentimentality  at  her  tongue’s 
end,  and  makes  artistic  use  of  it.  The  effect  is  somewhat 
hard  and  brassy;  but  justness  of  tone  in  such  matters  is 
for  people  of  Madame  Cardinal’s  station  an  affair  of  the 
susceptibility.  A Madame  Cardinal  of  any  other  nation- 
ality would  be  simply  abominable,  since  to  her  moral 
obliquity  she  would  inevitably  add  the  mental  degrada- 
tion fatal  to  the  last  vestiges  of  self-respect.  As  it  is,  the 
caricature  of  one  side  of  the  French  nature  which  M. 
Halevy’s  admirable  portrait  furnishes  serves  the  purpose 
of  a lens  of  high  magnifying  power  in  exhibiting  the 
weakness  of  the  French  ideal  of  delicatesse . Its  weakness 
appears  equally  clear  when  Madame  Cardinal  is  grossly 
and  absurdly  flouting  it,  as  in  the  above  boutade,  and  when, 
as  is  generally  the  case,  she  is  grossly  and  absurdly  affect- 
ing it.  Delicatesse  is  a social  and  intellectual  virtue — not 
a personal  and  moral  one.  It  is  the  refinement  of  good- 
sense  under  the  direction  of  the  art  instinct.  It  is,  in  a 
word,  conscientiousness  minus  sentiment.  What  is  the 
quality  of  conscientiousness — almost  as  frequent  with  us 
as  its  correlative  opposite,  cant — but  the  result  of  adding 
sentiment,  that  is,  serious  emotion,  to  a disposition  to 
right  conduct?  And  the  French  lack  of  conscientiousness 
in  its  deeper  and  subtler  sense,  and  their  substitution  for  it 
of  delicatesse , indicates  very  strikingly  a profound  lack  of 
sentiment  also — an  adjustment  of  the  susceptibility  to 
social  expansion  instead  of  to  personal  concentration. 
Rousseau’s  notion  of  gaining  a fortune  by  pressing  a 
button  which  should  kill  a mandarin  has  no  attractions 
for  us.  The  irresponsible  levity  of  M.  Sarcey’s  chagrin  at 
having  killed  a servant  of  brain-fever,  by  trying  vainly  to 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


107 


teach  him  to  read,  gives  us  a slight  shock.  We  have, 
very  likely,  too  much  conscientiousness.  Every  one  will 
recall  absurd  instances  of  its  unhappy  exaggeration.  But 
our  possession  of  both  the  quality  and  its  defect  is  one  of 
our  differences  from  the  French.  De'licatesse,  of  which 
unquestionably  we  have  too  little,  is  in  comparison  decid- 
edly an  external  and  rational  quality.  Violation  of  its 
precepts  results  in  mortification,  but  not  remorse.  A 
coarse  person  may  become  thoroughly  delicat  by  careful 
observation  of  his  acts,  by  considerateness,  by  attention, 
by  intellectual  conviction  of  its  worldly  wisdom.  The 
chances  are  against  his  success,  of  course,  because  of  the 
well-known  difficulty  of  making  silk  purses  out  of  any- 
thing but  silk — but  it  is  not  impossible;  whereas  to 
“become”  conscientious  is  a nonsense  except  through 
a change  of  heart  and  the  aid  of  sentiment  and  emotion. 

Certainly  the  frequency  of  French  allusions  to  so  deli- 
cate a thing  as  delicacy  jars  on  a sensitiveness  that  is 
acute  rather  than  rational — rude  rather  than  civilized  the 
French  would  perhaps  say.  You  feel  like  the  little  boy 
who,  being  taken  to  visit  a family  of  very  articulate  piety, 
protested  in  confidence  to  his  mother  that  so  much  open 
talk  about  God  sounded  to  his  sense  too  much  like 
“ bragging.”  Such  words  and  phrases  as  hon?ieur , gloire , 
exeessivement  scrupuleux , tres  honorable , extremement  delicat 
seem  to  us  over-frequent  in  French  usage,  because  we 
always  use  them  with  emotion,  and  with  personal  emotion 
(sincere  or  perfunctory),  and  so  fail  to  see  that  the  French 
use  them  scientifically.  An  American  miner — not  such  a 
one  as  the  grotesque  Clarkson  of  M.  Dumas  fils’s  imagina- 
tion, but  such  an  uncut  diamond  as  Bret  Harte’s  Kaintuck 
— would  undoubtedly  find  M.  Augier’s  Marquis  de  Presles 
lacking  in  true  sensitiveness  in  boasting  of  his  pedigree 


io8 


French  Traits 


and  prating  of  his  honor.  On  the  other  hand,  the  deli- 
cacy of  Una’s  lion  itself  probably  seems  a little  fantastic 
to  the  Frenchman,  who  would  be  sure  also  to  share  the 
feeling  of  the  Marseillais  for  that  of  Inghomar.  His 
highly  developed  social  instinct,  his  remarkable  intelli- 
gence, his  good-sense,  his  lack  of  sentiment,  enable  him 
to  disport  freely  and  even  gracefully  on  what  appears  to 
our  eyes  the  thinnest  of  thin  ice;  he  talks  with  great 
frankness  of  intimate  things,  makes  confidently  all  man- 
ner of  delicate  allusions,  seems  to  menace  an  assault  upon 
the  very  citadel  of  your  privacy,  asks  with  inimitable 
aplomb  questions  of  an  indiscretion  which  makes  your  own 
awkwardness  fairly  gasp — all  because  his  interest  in  these 
things  is  purely  impersonal  and  uncolored  with  a tinge  of 
sentiment.  Take,  for  example,  the  instance  of  money. 
The  French  consider  America  El  Dorado;  and  having 
regard  to  the  comparative  ease  with  which  money  is  made 
here,  they  are  quite  right.  But  they  entirely  mistake  our 
interest  in  money,  which  they  imagine  to  be  intensely 
philistine,  whereas  it  is  not  so  much  that  we  care  for 
money  as  that  we  care  as  a nation  for  little  else.  Money 
is,  on  the  other  hand,  only  one  of  the  far  more  numerous 
and  multifarious  interests  of  the  French;  but  they  talk 
about  it  as  we  never  do,  and  as,  in  fact,  sounds  cynical  to 
American  ears.  Money-making  is  so  much  a matter  of 
course  with  the  vast  majority  of  our  people  that  without 
being  paradoxical  we  may  call  our  preoccupation  with  it 
in  a measure  disinterested.  We  pursue  the  end  of  money- 
getting more  or  less  artistically,  in  a word,  and  the  ex- 
travagance and  recklessness  with  which  we  spend  it  pro- 
ceed from  this  and  not  from  vulgarity,  as  Europeans, 
whose  experience  tells  them  nothing  on  this  point,  believe. 
It  is,  in  fine,  with  us  an  end  rather  than  a means,  and  con- 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


109 


sequently  enables  us  to  escape  that  sordidness  which  does 
not  fail  to  shock  us  abroad.  Our  attitude  is  thus  irra- 
tional beside  that  of  the  French,  and  causes  their  frank 
eagerness  of  acquisition  and  undisguised  economy  of 
spending  to  seem  extremely  terre-a-terre  to  us.  “ Coal-oil 
Johnny  ” is  really  a less  vulgar  figure  than  the  more  sensi- 
ble Pere  Grandet,  and  he  is  perhaps  a less  frequent  type 
with  us  than  Balzac’s  miser  is  in  France.  As  business  is  a 
less  definite  pursuit  with  the  French,  it  becomes  in  dilu- 
tion even  more  general;  it  is  followed  as  art  is  with  us — 
not  only  by  the  profession,  but  by  an  innumerable  army  of 
amateurs.  And  it  is  largely  with  these  that  the  American 
visitor  comes  into  contact.  His  mental  note-book  is  nat- 
urally, thus,  crowded  with  disagreeable  and  exasperating 
data  of  what  seems  to  his  haste  indelicacy  carried  beyond 
the  honorable  limit.  But  it  is  to  be  observed  that  these 
instances  rarely  illustrate  an  offence  committed  against 
the  unwritten  law  of  the  French  community  itself,  and 
that  therefore  dishonorable  is  an  inapplicable  epithet.  To 
expect  a community  to  change  its  customs  in  these  regards 
for  the  benefit  of  your  naivete  would  be  to  exhibit  still 
greater  naivete  j but  it  is  impossible  not  to  argue  from 
them  an  indisposition  to  permit  good-sense  any  senti- 
mental relaxation  whatever,  even  in  circumstances  of  the 
utmost  seductiveness  to  a sensitive  nature. 

The  French  community  is  destitute  of  many  sentimental 
influences  which  are  very  potent  with  us.  The  home,  for 
instance,  in  England  and  among  ourselves  is  a nursery  of 
sentiment  to  a degree  which  it  certainly  is  not  in  France — 
right  as  the  French  are  in  resenting  our  absurd  misconcep- 
tion of  their  home-life.  Mother  and  children  are  not,  in 
France,  brought  into  such  sympathetic  and  sentimental 
relations.  The  reciprocal  affection  is,  of  course,  just  as 


I 10 


French  Traits 


sure  and  puissant,  but  its  sinews  are  rational.  She  does 
not  efface  herself  so  much,  and  aspire  to  live  only  in 
them.  They  are  educationally  and  otherwise  occupied 
instead  of  developing  emotional  precocity.  There  are  no 
long  readings  winter  evenings,  and  none  of  that  intimate 
companionship  so  often  productive  of  what,  physiologi- 
cally speaking,  has  been  so  aptly  termed  “emotional 
prodigality.”  Our  society  is  in  considerable  measure 
leavened  by  young  men  who,  chiefly  through  this  prodi- 
gality, have  at  one  time  or  another  contemplated  entering 
the  ministry,  and  have  abandoned  the  notion  only  after 
the  momentous  struggle  which  leaves  lasting  traces  on  the 
sensibility.  French  youth  do  not  know  what  solitude  is; 
their  only  “ communings  ” are  communication.  They 
naturally  have  less  aptitude  for  the  spiritual  side  of  life 
than  for  its  sensual  and  rational  sides.  The  heart  and 
the  passions  are  of  course  as  highly,  if  not  as  exclusively, 
developed  in  France  as  elsewhere,  but  in  the  elevation  I 
have  already  mentioned — in  considering  French  morality 
— of  the  mind  over  the  soul  the  tendency  to  materialism  is 
never  far  from  the  surface. 

In  fine,  when  the  French  enter  the  realm  of  sentiment 
they  do  not  seem  quite  at  home.  They  are  in  danger  of 
becoming  either  fantastic  or  conventional.  “ Les  deux 
tours  de  Notre  Dame  sont  le  H de  Hugo!”  exclaims,  one 
day,  Auguste  Vacquerie  to  Jules  Claretie,  and  Claretie 
chronicles  the  remark  as  an  impressive  one.  Similar  ex- 
travagances pass  muster  in  the  sphere  of  art,  though  only 
where  sentiment  is  concerned.  On  the  other  hand,  though 
nowhere  is  beauty  admired  more  fanatically — adored  more 
abjectly,  one  may  almost  say — the  idea  of  it  is  often  con- 
ventional enough.  Expression,  sentiment,  do  not  count 
for  so  much  as  regularity.  Le  char  me  prime  la  bcautt  is  a 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


til 


French  adage,  but  what  constitutes  charm  is  the  real  ques- 
tion. As  the  vocabularies  disclose,  a single  French  word 
answers  to  “beautiful,  fine,  handsome.”  Sometimes 
charm  is  mere  chic , cachet , style,  order  and  movement 
in  carriage.  That  at  any  rate  is,  as  a matter  of  fact,  the 
great  Parisian  substitute  for  beauty,  and  has  doubtless 
become  so  by  natural  selection.  Accordingly,  for  the 
most  part  they  confine  their  activities  to  the  sphere  of  the 
intelligence,  where  they  are  never  fantastic  and  rarely 
perfunctory;  and  they  find  no  difficulty  whatever  in  doing 
this,  because  the  atmosphere  of  the  intelligence  is  their 
natural  element. 

Notice,  for  example,  the  diction  of  French  acting.  It 
is  the  sense  and  not  the  sentiment  of  the  verse  or  prose 
that  is  savored  by  the  actor  and  the  audience.  The  voice 
never  caresses  the  emotion  evoked  by  the  significance  of 
the  lines  beyond  the  point  needful  for  complete  expres- 
sion. The  personal  feeling  by  which  such  an  actor  as 
Salvini  infuses  warmth  and  glow  into  his  most  polished 
impersonations  the  boards  of  the  Comedie  Franpaise  never 
witness.  It  is  an  impersonal,  that  is  to  say,  a purely  intel- 
lectual enjoyment  that  one  obtains  from  the  delicious 
voice  and  admirable  acting  of  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt, 
when  she  is  at  her  best,  when  she  is  most  contained,  when 
she  appeals  most  strongly  to  the  Parisian.  There  is  abso- 
lutely no  sentiment  whatever  in  that  quintessence  of  the 
exquisite  which  has  made  Madame  Judic  the  most  popular 
actress  of  Paris.  An  American  or  Englishman,  and  I 
should  suppose,  a foi'tiori , a German,  is  infallibly  much  im- 
pressed in  his  early  stages  of  French  theatre-going  at  the 
absence  of  intensity  in  the  love  passages;  the  absence  of 
all  that  kissing,  clasping,  enfolding,  rushing  together, 
gazing  into  the  depths  of  each  other’s  eyes — in  fine,  all 


112 


French  Traits 


that  effort  to  enact  the  unutterable  which  is  so  character- 
istic of  our  stage  as  to  have  become  thoroughly  perfunc- 
tory. That  this  sort  of  thing  does  not  exist  on  the 
French  stage  is  partly  due,  to  be  sure,  to  a nicer  sense 
of  propriety,  which  dictates  the  limits  of  what  is  fit  sub- 
ject for  artistic  representation;  but  mainly  it  is  to  be  as- 
cribed to  the  predominance  of  good-sense  over  sentiment 
in  the  French  appetite.  One  of  the  most  refined  pleasures 
that  this  world  furnishes  to  the  educated  intellectual  pal- 
ate is  the  acting  of  Mademoiselle  Susanne  Reichemberg. 
It  is  not  only  delicious  in  its  ingenue  quality,  but  it  has  an 
ampleness — what  the  French  call  envergure — wholly  re- 
markable in  this  kind  of  art.  Yet  the  foreigner  undoubt- 
edly, during  a long  apprenticeship,  finds  Mademoiselle 
Reichemberg’s  art  a little  faint,  a little  thin,  a little  elu- 
sive, because  of  the  ethereality  with  which  it  hovers  over 
the  region  of  sentiment,  without  ever  alighting  so  that  he 
may  repose  his  apprehensive  faculties  an  instant  and  de- 
vote himself  to  purely  sensuous  enjoyment.  There  is  no 
pause,  no  intermission  in  which  to  meditate,  as  we  say — 
the  word  often  being  a euphemism  for  “dream.”  In  the 
presence  of  a worthy  object,  the  Frenchman’s  pleasure  is 
produced  by  the  act  of  apprehension  itself;  ours  by  the 
stimulus  apprehension  gives  to  the  sensibility.  We  like 
the  light  touch,  but  we  like  it  to  linger.  Take  such  a 
piece  as  M.  Augier’s  charming  tritle,  called  “ Le  Post- 
Script urn.’ ’ It  is  impossible  for  the  American  to  repress 
a wish  that  there  were  more  of  it;  the  denouement  occurs 
just  as  sentiment  enters  the  scene.  The  Frenchman  can 
imagine  the  rest;  so  can  we,  but  we  want  it  imagined  for 
us  all  the  same — we  are  more  sentimental.  The  French 
public  would  never  have  demanded  the  epilogue  of  “ The 
Newcomes.  ” 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


ii  3 


Pathos  and  grandeur  and  their  adequate  presentation 
are  by  no  means  unknown  to  the  French  stage,  though 
assuredly  they  are  not  its  strong  points.  But  it  is  always 
unmistakably  apparent  that  these  are  never  pursued  out- 
side the  realm  of  pure  intelligence,  and  driven  to  a refuge 
in  that  of  pure  emotion.  Even  in  such  a torrent  of  pas- 
sion as  that  which  Got  portrays  in  “ Les  Rantzau,”  for 
example — certainly,  as  he  presents  it,  one  of  the  most 
powerful  scenes  to  be  found  in  the  contemporary  drama — 
the  spectator  is  throughout  acutely  conscious  of  the  illu- 
sion in  virtue  of  which  art  is  art  and  not  a vulgarization 
of  nature.  In  other  words,  however  the  feelings  may  be 
stirred,  the  mind  is  maintained  in  continuous  activity,  and 
never  abdicates  in  favor  of  the  momentum  of  pure  emotion. 
Exactly  the  opposite  is  the  experience  of  the  spectator 
who  witnesses  Miss  Morris’s  remarkable  impersonation  of 
Cora,  in  “Article  47,”  say — in  seeing  which  the  nerves 
vibrate  long  after  the  moral  susceptibility  is  too  be- 
numbed to  react.  Similar  contrasts  are  noticeable  in 
every  department  of  activity. 

The  absence  of  anything  answering  to  our  negro-min- 
strelsy presents  a very  striking  one.  Few  things  could  be 
less  alike  than  the  sensations  obtainable  from  the  cafe- 
concert  entertainment  and  those  produced  by  the  melan- 
choly songs  and  the  burnt-cork  buffoonery  under  whose 
benign  influence  the  Anglo-Saxon  sensibility  is  so  wont  to 
expand.  “They  have  gazed,”  said  Thackeray  of  his 
spectacles,  “at  dozens  of  tragedy  queens,  dying  on  the 
stage  and  expiring  in  appropriate  blank  verse,  and  I never 
wanted  to  wipe  them.  They  have  looked  up,  with  deep 
respect  be  it  said,  at  many  scores  of  clergymen  in  pulpits, 
and  without  being  dimmed;  and  behold!  a vagabond, 
with  a corked  face  and  a banjo,  sings  a little  song,  strikes 


H4 


French  Traits 


a wild  note  which  sets  the  whole  heart  thrilling  with 
happy  pity.”  It  would  be  difficult,  I think,  to  explain  to 
a Frenchman  the  significance  of  ‘‘thrilling  with  happy 
pity;”  or  the  value  in  general  of  idle  tears  drawn  from 
the  depths  of  never  so  divine  a despair;  or  the  connection 
of  this  kind  of  emotion  with  that  with  which  Thackeray 
associates  it  in  saying,  in  the  same  paragraph  which  re- 
cords the  dimming  of  his  spectacles  by  a sentimental 
ditty,  “ I have  seen  great,  whiskered  Frenchmen  warbling 
the  ‘Bonne  Vieille,’  the  ‘ Soldats,  au  pas,  au  pas,’  with 
tears  rolling  down  their  mustaches.”  ‘‘Is  there  then,” 
one  can  fancy  him  asking  in  perplexity,  “ no  difference 
between  the  respective  ways  in  which  Beranger  and  a ban- 
joist  affect  the  English  sensibility?” 

We  miss  unction  in  the  expression  with  which  the  French 
read  even  the  lyric  and  emotional  verse  and  prose  of  their 
own  authors.  A Frenchman  seems  to  see  in  such  idyls  as 
Daudet’s  ” Lettres  de  Mon  Moulin  ” a wholly  different 
kind  of  charm  from  that  which  penetrates  us.  What  we 
call  unction  would  undoubtedly  seem  to  him  unctuousness 
— especially  should  he  listen  to  some  of  our  professional 
elocutionists,  who  bear  on  so  hard  as  to  make  the  tenderer 
sentiments  fairly  squeak.  Even  in  personal  matters,  sen- 
timent with  the  French  does  not  outlast  the  intellectual 
occasion  of  it.  In  the  sincerest  grief  they  are  easily  con- 
soled. Their  sanity  comes  speedily  to  their  rescue  from 
the  peril  of  morbidness,  which,  from  their  point  of  view, 
it  is  so  clearly  a duty  to  avoid  that  they  devote  them- 
selves to  it  consciously  and  expressly.  Inconstancy  is 
therefore  not  a trait  to  be  ashamed  of.  Certain  forms  of 
constancy,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  puerile  and  rudimen- 
tary. Be  constant  just  so  long  as  instinct,  reason,  and 
passion  dictate.  L' amour  becomes  I'amitie  with  appalling 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


swiftness.  There  are,  perhaps,  as  many  “John  Ander- 
sons” — Daudet’s  “ Les  Vieux’’  is  as  touching  as  the 
Scotch  poem — but  they  are  not  given  to  sentimentalizing. 
In  the  average  Parisian  the  horror  of  old  age  has  some- 
thing almost  hysterical  about  it.  For  them,  more  than 
for  any  one  else,  the  days  of  their  youth  are  the  days  of 
their  glory. 

The  feeling  for  landscape  is  said  to  be  a modern  senti- 
ment. In  a Wordsworthian  degree  of  intensity  it  may  be; 
though  from  Sophocles  to  Shakespeare  there  is  not  want- 
ing abundant  evidence  of  the  power  of  nature  over  human 
emotions.  But  here,  at  any  rate,  is  a field  in  which  the 
imagination  has  full  sway,  in  which  the  feeling  for  what  is 
can  be  indulged  unhampered  by  what  is  made , where  the 
mind  is  led  captive  by  the  sense  and  the  sense  itself  se- 
duced by  the  fancy,  where  sentiment,  uncurbed  by  either 
the  intellect  or  the  will,  reacts  under  the  effect  of  nature’s 
beauty  in  such  a way  as  to  transfigure  the  cause  itself  of 
so  much  emotion  and  transform  the  actual  aspect  of  nat- 
ure into  celestial  mirage.  Mention  that  phenomenon  to 
the  Frenchman,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  find  his  civility 
hardly  capable  of  concealing  his  scepticism.  You  will 
discover  in  him  something  of  the  feeling  you  yourself 
experience  in  the  presence  of  certain  manifestations  of 
German  sentiment.  It  has  been  said,  indeed,  of  Theodore 
Rousseau  that  whereas  other  men  loved  nature,  he  was  in 
love  with  her;  but  Rousseau  was  a specialist,  and,  like 
George  Sand,  remains  wholly  exceptional.  Daudet’s 
Bompard,  who  finds  Switzerland  “ un  paysage  de  con- 
vention,’’ is  the  type.  In  the  presence  of  nature  even 
the  Proven£al  is  recueilli.  The  true  Frenchman,  who  is 
socially  and  intellectually  expansion  itself,  is  no  more 
touched  by  green  fields  and  new  pastures  than  such  Eng- 


French  Traits 


1 16 


lish  exceptions  as  Sydney  Smith  or  Doctor  Johnson.  Only 
by  an  excess  of  sentiment  over  the  thinking  power  can  one 
surrender  himself  fully  to  the  pantheistic  charm  of  land- 
scape, or  share  that  passion  for  “scenery”  which  rules 
strongly  in  the  breast  of  even  our  philistine. 

As  with  nature,  so  in  art — a domain  wherein  the  modern 
Frenchman  believes  himself  supreme,  and  wherein,  indeed, 
he  is  on  many  sides  unrivalled.  In  architecture,  painting, 
sculpture,  and  poetry,  one  may  almost  say  that  whereas 
the  antique  and  the  Renaissance  art  appealed  to  the  mind 
through  t lie  sense,  the  French  genius  reaches  the  sense 
through  the  mind.  The  mind  at  all  events  is  first  satis- 
fied. It  is  the  science  rather  than  the  sentiment  of  per- 
haps the  most  emotional  plastic  art  in  the  world — mediae- 
val architecture,  namely — that  strikes  most  powerfully  its 
most  eminent  expositor,  M.  Viollet-le-Duc,  as  appears  not 
merely  in  his  admirable  “ Discourses,”  but  especially  in 
his  restorations,  which  are  as  cold  as  the  stone  that  com- 
poses them.  French  aesthetic  criticism  in  all  departments 
is  pervaded  by  this  spirit.  And  as  criticism  far  more  than 
imaginative  writing  demands  standards  and  canons  in 
order  to  attain  coherence  and  effectiveness,  it  is  perhaps 
for  this  reason  that  French  criticism  is  altogether  un- 
equalled. Competence  may  be  measured,  but  sentiment 
is  less  palpable;  accordingly,  in  every  artistic  province 
competence  mainly  is  what  is  looked  for,  seen,  and  dis- 
cussed. Accordingly,  too,  it  mainly  is  what  is  found. 
Not  only  is  the  technic  more  interesting  as  a rule  than  the 
idea,  the  treatment  worthier  than  the  motive.  This  is  a 
consequence  of  highly  developed  education,  which,  though 
it  may  not  stifle  inspiration,  yet  infallibly  disturbs  the 
relation  which,  under  more  rudimentary  conditions  of 
training,  conception  and  execution  reciprocally  sustain. 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


11 7 

But  what  is  more  noteworthy  and  more  natively  character- 
istic of  French  art  is  that  the  technic  itself  is  sapient 
rather  than  sensuous.  Your  respect  for  it  reaches  admira- 
tion; but  exceptions  like  Vollon,  whose  touch  seduces  you 
by  its  charm,  are  rare.  Manet  and  the  whole  impression- 
ist school,  Degas  apart,  whose  art  begins  and  ends  in 
technic,  are  in  the  last  analysis  admirable  rather  than 
moving;  the  mass  of  the  school,  indeed,  still  handles  its 
brush  polemically.  Observe  the  difference  between  Diaz 
(who  is  essentially  not  Spanish  but  French)  and  Monticelli 
(who  is  essentially  not  French  but  Italian)  in  the  matter 
of  sentiment.  There  can  be  no  doubt  which  is  the  saner 
painter,  which  has  the  larger  method,  but  there  are  chords 
of  infinite  refinement  in  the  other’s  poetic  register  that 
Diaz  never  reaches;  his  fine  ladies  and  gallants  are  very 
courtly,  they  have  the  grand  air,  but  they  have  not  the 
exquisite  suavity  of  Monticelli’s,  and  do  not  breathe  the 
same  ether.  The  great  annual  exhibition  at  the  Palais 
de  l’lndustrie  contains  no  sentiment  like  that  of  the  Vene- 
tian Nono,  the  English  Burne-Jones,  the  American  Mar- 
tin; there  is  no  tone  like  Segantini’s,  no  color  like  La 
Farge’s.  Even  in  the  crucial  instances  of  Corot  and 
Millet — not  to  mention  Troyon  and  Daubigny — even  in 
the  case  of  the  Fontainebleau  coterie,  which  contrasts  so 
strongly  with  the  mass  of  French  art,  and  which  is  thor- 
oughly poetic,  there  is  still  visible  the  high,  clear  preva- 
lence of  French  style,  French  distinction,  French  reserve, 
order,  measure.  Corot  is,  I think,  yet  more  eminent  for 
style  than  for  sentiment.  Millet’s  sentiment  is  a trifle 
morbid;  his  melancholy  is  not  intense  and  spontaneous, 
but  pervasive  and  discouraged.  It.  is  not  quite,  I think, 
the  spontaneous,  natural  note  which  produces  the  poetry 
of  “Turner’s  seas  and  Reynolds’s  children,’’  compara- 


i8 


French  Traits 


tively  impotent  as  the  technic  is  in  either  English  case. 
It  has  a philosophical  touch  in  it;  it  is  mentally  preoccu- 
pied. The  French  peasant  is,  in  fine,  too  exclusively 
Millet’s  subject.  Even  in  the  Fontainebleau  coterie  the 
thinking  power  dominates. 

Of  course  the  same  characteristic  is  quite  as  noticeable 
in  poetry  as  in  plastic  art.  French  tragedy  is  not  what 
the  younger  Cr^billon  called  it — “ the  most  perfect  farce 
ever  invented  by  the  human  mind  ” — but  it  has  incontest- 
ably the  qualities  of  prose;  it  has  even  the  defects  of 
prose.  As  a rule  it  is  clear,  placid,  measured,  the  emo- 
tional element  quite  lost  in  its  contained  and  cadenced 
expression;  or  else  it  is  emphase.  We,  at  least,  cannot 
quite  understand  what  is  meant  by  what  the  French  say 
about  the  rude  grandeur  of  Corneille,  except  by  con- 
trasting him  with  the  ingenious  and  refined  but,  to  our 
notion,  not  deeply  poetic  Racine;  and,  of  course,  such  a 
contrast  has  nothing  in  the  way  of  positive  judgment  in 
it.  Still  it  is  the  fashion  to  misappreciate  French  classic 
poetry  in  English,  and  to  misappreciate  it  very  grossly  and 
absurdly;  the  affectation  of  overestimating  it  is  very 
recent  and,  as  yet,  very  little  disseminated.  We  have  far 
more  to  learn  from  the  French  admiration  of  it  than  we 
commonly  imagine.  It  is  singular  that  we  should  be  as 
temerarious  as  we  are  in  judging  an  art  with  whose  me- 
dium of  expression  we  are  so  little  familiar.  Plastic  art  is 
a universal  language.  The  French  idiom  is  perhaps  the 
modern  tongue  whose  idiosyncrasies  are  most  highly  de- 
veloped, in  the  first  place,  and,  in  the  second,  the  most 
inaccessible  to  the  foreigner.  But  one  thing  is  plain,  an 
English-speaking  person  is  apt  to  underestimate  its  poetic 
capacity  because  of  the  peculiar  composition  of  his  own 
language.  How  much  of  the  poetic  quality  of  English 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


119 

verse  and  prose  is  due  to  the  fact  that  we  have  a double 
vocabulary  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine.  It  is  cer- 
tainly very  considerable.  The  play  of  mind  and  emotion 
afforded  by  this  easy  method  of  avoiding  prosaic  associa- 
tions by  using  the  Saxon  or  the  Latin  word  or  phrase,  or 
both,  or  varying  their  proportions,  as  the  shade  of  sense 
may  pronfpt,  is  very  great.  We  rely  so  unconsciously  on 
this  advantage  that  we  feel  its  absence  as  the  French, 
who  do  not  know  it,  of  course  cannot,  and  as  it  is,  equally 
of  course,  wholly  unjust  to  feel  in  the  case  of  French 
poetry.  When  Creon  exclaims  to  CEdipus,  who  has  the 
madness  to  appear  in  Thebes,  “ Quelle  imprudence  ex- 
treme!” the  English-speaking  spectator,  who  misses  the 
value  of  the  tone,  adjudges  the  poetic  quality  of  the  ejac- 
ulation about  equivalent  to  that  of  a reproach  addressed 
to  a man  who  should  have  had  the  imprudence  to  brave 
the  night-air  without  an  overcoat.  He  does  not  see  that 
such  a word  as  imprudence  is,  so  far  as  its  poetic  quality  is 
concerned,  a totally  different  word  from  “imprudence.” 
Even  a critic  of  so  nice  a sense  and  a French  scholar  of 
such  distinction  as  Mr.  Arnold  complains  that  the  only 
word  the  French  have  for  “ fustian  ” is  emphase — our  word 
for  emphasis.  But  emphase  in  the  proper  circumstances 
means  to  a Frenchman  precisely  what  fustian  means  to 
us;  it  does  not  mean  emphasis  at  all.  It  would  be  as 
pertinent  to  find  the  French  lack  of  musical  instinct  at- 
tested by  their  making  chanticleer  chanter  instead  of 
“crow.”  We  cannot  proceed  too  cautiously  where  the 
shades  of  the  French  language  are  concerned.  There  is 
no  feu  follet  which  equals  it. 

Nevertheless,  let  us  note  that  this  applies  mainly  to 
technic;  and  that  after  we  have  admitted  our  incompe- 
tence to  pronounce  upon  the  poetic  quality  of  the  medium, 


120 


French  Traits 


and  come  as  directly  as  thus  we  may  to  the  substance  of 
French  poetry,  we  almost  infallibly  find  this  to  have  the 
quality  of  rhetoric  rather  than  of  absolute  poetry,  as  we 
understand  the  term.  Its  stuff  is  assuredly  not  star-dust. 
Keats’s  conjunction  of  the  two  words  “Cold  pastoral!’’ 
shows  the  power  of  the  alchemist  who  fuses  thought  and 
emotion  at  the  white  heat  requisite  for  producing  the 
quintessence  of  poetry.  Beside  them  Victor  Hugo  s 
naively  admired  characterization  of  death  as  “ La  grande 
endormeuse’’  is  the  rhetorical  variant  of  a classic  com- 
monplace. On  the  other  hand,  where  elevation  rather 
than  intensity  of  poetic  emotion  is  in  question,  the  rhetori- 
cal quality  of  French  poetry  is  still  more  apparent;  it  is 
perfect  rhetoric,  but  its  rational  and  finite  alloy  is  still 
more  noticeable.  Is  there  anything  in  Victor  Hugo’s 
trinity  of  Rabelais,  Moliere,  and  Voltaire,  or  in  “soft 
Racine  and  grave  Corneille,”  that  strikes  precisely  the 
same  note  as  Lear  turning  from  his  dead  Cordelia  with 
“ Pray  you,  undo  this  button — thank  you,  sir!  ? \ et  )ou 

may  find  in  English  prose  the  same  sudden  poetic  harmo- 
nizing with  the  calm  and  simplicity  of  nature  herself  when 
personal  emotion  has  spent  its  exaltation;  for  example, 
where  Henry  Esmond,  after  his  tirade  to  the  Prince,  turns 
to  his  cousin  with  “ Frank  will  do  the  same,  won’t  you, 
cousin?” 

Lack  of  sentiment,  too,  seems  to  me  directly  responsible 
for  that  intrusion  of  philosophy  into  the  domain  of  art, 
which  is  a French  eccentricity — just  as,  perhaps,  to  an  ex- 
cess of  sentiment  is  to  be  attributed  the  tendency  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  artist  to  infiltrate  his  work  with  moralizing. 
Balzac  and  Thackeray  contrast  in  illustration  of  this  as  in 
so  many  other  respects.  In  either  instance  art  loses  in 
the  one  because  sentiment  overshadows  the  artistic  sense. 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


I 2 I 


in  the  other  because  there  is  no  qualifying  sentiment  to 
prevent  paradox  through  the  medium  of  tact  and  feeling. 
Dreary  pages  of  Balzac  would  have  been  spared  his  read- 
ers had  his  intelligence  been  sentimentally  modified.  But 
it  is  in  such  instances  as  that  which  the  younger  Dumas 
presents  that  this  characteristic  effect  is  best  seen.  The 
younger  Dumas  is  taken  very  seriously  in  France.  He  is 
the  first  of  French  social  philosophers.  He  uses  the  stage 
as  a professor  does  his  desk.  His  plays  are  philosophical 
deliverances;  and,  in  spite  of  their  immense  cleverness  of 
artistic  artifice,  they  are  invariably  artistic  paradoxes. 
Invariably  the  sentiment  revolts  at  the  first  act,  and  the 
rest  of  the  piece  is  an  acted  argument  to  prove  the  illogi- 
cality of  this  repugnance,  its  philosophical  unsoundness. 
A similar  note  is  observable  in  much  of  Hugo’s  work. 
The  catastrophe  of  “ Hernani  ” is  very  powerfully  but- 
tressed, but  sentimentally  it  is  paradoxical  and  sterile. 
The  same  is  true  of  the  way  in  which  the  King  wins  the 
love  of  his  victim  in  “ Le  roi  s’amuse;”  it  is  very  likely 
sound  empirical  philosophy,  but  artistically  it  is  an  intru- 
sion. “ Les  Miserables  ” is  full  of  analogous  error,  owing 
to  the  same  cause.  And  in  fact,  nothing  is  so  hostile  to 
the  emphase  which  is  admittedly  the  great  bane  of  Hugo’s 
writing,  as  the  subtle  sense  of  fitness  born  of  feeling 
alone;  where  he  is  instinctive  and  truly  sentimental, 
Hugo  is  superb.  Finally,  take  the  still  more  conspicuous 
instance  of  a writer  who  passes  in  general  for  very  nearly 
a pure  sentimentalist,  and  who  is  certainly  an  artist  of  the 
first  class — M.  Renan.  He  is  quite  right  in  classing  that 
curious  part  of  his  work,  of  which  “ L’Abbesse  de  Jou- 
arre  ” may  figure  as  the  most  striking  representative,  as 
pure  diversion;  it  is  related  to  the  mass  of  his  admirable 
accomplishment  on  no  side.  French  criticism  itself  finds 


122 


French  Traits 


“ L’Abbesse  de  Jouarre  ” displeasing;  and  it  is  displeas- 
ing because  in  it  M.  Renan  virtually  reverses  his  usual 
process,  and  instead  of  philosophy  penetrated  with  senti- 
ment, gives  us  art  invaded  by  philosophy.  The  philoso- 
phy of  “ L’Abbesse  de  Jouarre  ” is,  perhaps,  not  fantastic 
as  philosophy,  but  as  art  the  piece  is  fatally  lacking  in 
sentiment;  although  it  deals  with  love  itself,  it  deals  with 
it  argumentatively;  it  defends  a thesis;  it  is  what  the 
French  call  thhe.  Perhaps  did  the  world  believe  its  last 
hour  come  there  would  be  a universal  outburst  of  sexual 
love.  Perhaps  for  people  in  general  love  is  a passion 
capable  of  enough  sublimity  for  supreme  crises.  But 
though  we  may  grant  this,  we  do  not  feel  it.  Yet  with 
the  most  sentimental  of  French  philosophers  the  intellect 
so  dominates  the  susceptibility  that  in  a professed  work 
of  art  the  subject  is  taken  on  its  curious  side,  even  at  the 
expense  of  revolting  the  sentiment.  And  if  we  examine 
in  this  regard  a great  deal  of  current  French  literature — 
the  immensely  clever  and  impressive  work  of  M.  Guy  de 
Maupassant  and  M.  Richepin,  for  example — it  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  note  the  frequency  with  which  this  motive 
recurs:  namely,  illustration  of  the  warfare  between  truth 
anil  sentiment,  of  the  incompatibility  between  zest  for 
the  real  and  affection  for  the  attractive,  and,  as  a con- 
stant undertone,  the  superior  dignity  of  the  former  in 
either  instance.  The  spirit  and  temper  of  this  literature 
are  eccentric  only  in  degree;  they  are  only  accentuations 
of  the  national  turn  for  the  domination  of  sentiment  by 
sense. 

What  has  become  of  the  Celtic  strain  in  the  French 
nature?  How  superficial  of  Karl  Hillebrand  to  assert, 
" Grattez  le  Fran^ais  et  vous  trouverez  lTrlandais!” 
And  how  little  impression  the  Frank  seems  to  have  made 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


23 


on  the  true  French  character!  When  Sieyes  exclaimed  of 
the  aristocracy,  “ Let  us  send  them  back  to  their  German 
marshes!”  he  had  not  only  the  nation,  but  the  French 
nature  itself,  at  his  back.  The  fusion  of  the  Gaul  and 
Roman  seems  to  have  been  as  complete  in  character  as  in 
institutions.  Whatever  is  runic,  bardic,  weird,  barbaric, 
is  as  repugnant  to  the  Frenchman  of  to-day  as  to  the 
Roman  of  the  age  of  Augustus.  It  was  even  repugnant 
to  the  Frenchman  of  the  epoch  of  “ The  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose.”  The  romance  and  chivalry  of  Francis  I.’s  time 
were  in  great  measure,  doubtless,  a Merovingian  leg- 
acy; and  their  survival  in  duels  and  deliberate  gallantry 
nowadays,  amid  so  much  that  is  terre-a-terre  and  emi- 
nently unromantic,  constitutes  an  odd  conjunction.  Of 
the  Renaissance  ideals,  nearly  the  only  one  spared  by  the 
Revolution  is  the  substitution  of  honor  for  duty  in  the 
sphere  of  morals.  Otherwise  even  the  jeunesse  doree  of 
the  day  is  more  bourgeoise  than  cavalier.  It  does  not  in- 
clude many  Bayards.  As  equality,  tolerance,  civilization, 
material  comfort  move  forward,  sentiment  evaporates. 
Rabelais  gives  place  to  Zola.  Where  esprit  prevails,  sen- 
timent necessarily  suffers.  Wit  is  hostile  to  the  penumbra 
of  poetic  feeling  inseparable  from  humor.  Fond  as  the 
French  are  of  intellectual  nuances , they  have  in  the  sphere 
of  sentiment  singularly  few.  And  for  such  sentiment  as 
may  be  divined  or  anticipated — for  axiomatic  or  com- 
monplace sentiment,  in  fine — their  contemptuousness  is 
marked.  Voltaire’s  peevish  reproach  to  the  rival  respon- 
sible for  his  mistress’s  death  is  a characteristic  illustra- 
tion; the  circumstances  so  plainly  justified  indignation 
that  the  only  resort  of  the  intellectual  instinct  was  in  pet- 
ulance. A society’s  need  of  sentiment,  we  may  per- 
haps say,  having  regard  at  any  rate  to  its  expression, 


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varies  inversely  with  its  solidarity,  with  its  homogeneity 
of  feeling;  and  it  is  the  highly  developed  social  instinct 
of  the  French  that  dispenses  them  from  all  depen- 
dence upon  that  epanchement , that  sentimental  effusion, 
which  we  find  so  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of  social 
intercourse — of  which  with  us,  indeed,  it  is  the  very 
essence. 

This  certainly  is  the  notion  of  the  French  themselves. 
The  abandon  of  feeling  and  impulse,  which  is  characteris- 
tically Celtic,  they  regard  as  uncivilized.  Their  apparent 
excitement  on  occasion,  political  and  other,  contains  a 
large  artistic  element,  even  when  it  is  not  the  natural 
accompaniment  of  deliberate  action.  Their  entire  senti- 
mental attitude  they  themselves  believe  to  be  the  antique 
attitude.  According  to  De  Maistre,  Racine  is  simply  a 
Greek  talking  French.  M.  Taine  points  out  the  similarity 
between  the  prominent  Athenian  traits  and  those  of  his 
countrymen.  The  parallelism  indisputably  holds  good  in 
many  points;  but  there  is  an  important  difference.  The 
French  have  the  antique  sanity;  they  have  neither  the 
serenity  nor  the  spirituality  of  the  antique  world.  The 
immense  complexity  of  the  modern  world;  the  tremendous 
task  of  clearing  away  the  debris  of  the  Middle  Age,  which 
has  left  permanent  scars,  and  is  still  incomplete;  the 
substitution  of  diffusion  for  concentration  of  culture 
and  intelligence  — are  all  hostile  to  national  serenity,  to 
national  spirituality.  The  force  which  overwhelmed  the 
antique  civilization  was  a prodigious  effusion  of  feeling. 
The  people  that  issued  soonest  and  farthest  from  the 
night  that  succeeded  naturally  freed  itself  most  com- 
pletely from  the  mediaeval  trait  of  mind  dominated  by 
emotion.  So,  amid  all  the  gayetv  and  brilliant  verve  of 
French  life  at  its  flood,  we  feel  inevitably  with  Arnold, 


Sense  and  Sentiment 


I25 


exclaiming  in  Montmartre,  that  “amiable  home  of  the 
dead  ’’ — 

“ So,  how  often  from  hot 
Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  lamps 
Blazing,  and  brilliant  crowds, 

Starred  and  jewell’d,  of  men 

Famous,  of  women  the  queens 

Of  dazzling  converse — from  fumes 

Of  praise,  hot,  heady  fumes,  to  the  poor  brain 

That  mount,  that  madden — how  oft 

Heine’s  spirit,  outworn, 

Long’d  itself  out  of  the  din, 

Back  to  the  tranquil,  the  cool, 

Far  German  home  of  his  youth  ! ” 

And  Heine,  who  belonged  plainly  to  Paris  by  his  intel- 
lectual side,  had  undoubtedly  that  un-Parisian  sentiment 
which,  when  he  was  sick  unto  death  and  everything  exter- 
nal seemed  trivial  to  him,  drew  him  irresistibly  toward  his 
old  German  grandmother,  in  spite  of  the  exasperation  with 
which,  in  his  prime,  her  ingrained  philistinism  had  filled 
him.  How  much  more,  then,  do  we,  about  whose  intelli- 
gence there  is  very  little  that  is  Parisian,  who  have  no 
such  capacity  as  Heine  for  breathing  with  exhilaration  the 
rarefied  French  atmosphere,  feel  therein  the  lack  of  that 
sentiment  which  is  to  us  the  universal  solvent  and  the 
supreme  consolation. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  the  French  themselves  feel  this 
insufficiency.  Do  not  even  fancy  that  they  quite  respect 
our  contentment  with  vague  emotion,  however  exquisite, 
as  a substitute  for  the  bracing  air  of  those  heights  where 
the  mind  exerts  itself  freely  and  the  consciousness  disports 
itself  at  its  ease.  To  them  Parnassus — or  the  Parisian 
variety  of  it — is  far  more  attractive  than  the  fireside. 
They  are  no  more  “ maddened  ” by  the  “ heady  fumes  of 


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French  Traits 


praise”  than  the  eagle  is  blinded  by  the  sun,  or  the  owl 
dismayed  by  the  darkness,  or  any  other  creature  disabled 
by  its  natural  element.  One  of  Edmond  About’s  eulo- 
gists exclaimed  at  his  funeral,  with  a fine  burst  of  elo- 
quence, referring  to  his  Alsatian  birth:  “ Peut-il  etre  le 
produit  d’une  terre  allemande!”  I think  if  we  take 
Heine  as  an  evidence  that  the  French  ideal  is  unsatisfac- 
tory to  the  Germanic  foreigner  best  disposed  thereto  by 
nature  and  training,  About  may  be  taken  as  the  type  of 
the  highly  organized  and  really  noble  nature  to  which  this 
ideal  seems  complete,  and  which  reminds  us  that  if  the 
French  are  the  least  poetic,  they  are  the  sanest  of  modern 
peoples.  The  nation  itself  deserves  Hugo’s  praise  of 
Paris:  “ Paris  a ete  trempe  dans  le  bon  sens,  ce  Styx  qui 
ne  laisse  point  passer  les  ombres  ” — “ Paris  has  been  dipped 
in  good-sense — that  Styx  which  lets  no  phantoms  pass. 


CHAPTER  V 


MANNERS 

French  manners  are  artistic,  they  are  systematized  and 
uniform;  they  are  not  excessive  as  we  erroneously  imag- 
ine; they  are  frank;  they  are  gay  and  gentle,  but  they  are 
above  all  else  impersonal.  In  this  sense  the  French  are 
not  merely  the  most  polite  nation  in  the  world.  They 
are  the  only  people  who  of  the  communication  of  man 
with  man  distinctly  and  formally  make  a recognized 
medium,  an  objective  “third  somewhat,”  in  metaphysical 
phrase,  in  which  the. speech  and  action  of  each  communi- 
cant encounter  those  of  the  other  without  in  any  degree 
involving  either  individuality  behind  them — which  is,  on 
the  contrary,  left  pointedly  alone  in  its  separate  and  inde- 
pendent sphere.  With  regard  to  this  last,  indeed,  there  is 
never,  except  in  violation  of  the  social  code,  any  curiosity 
manifested,  unless  the  degree  of  intimacy  is  such  that 
manners  themselves  are  of  no  importance,  or  the  individ- 
uality is  of  so  accentuated  a type  as  to  escape  divination — 
both  of  which  contingencies  are  rare.  And  it  is  perhaps 
this  indifference  that  is  mainly  accountable  for  the  general 
Anglo-Saxon  position  concerning  French  politeness,  for 
our  esteeming  it  incurably  artificial.  We  no  more  like  to 
submit  to  the  perfect  unconcern  as  to  the  subtler  points  of 
our  individuality  which  we  cannot  fail  to  remark  in  the 
way  in  which  the  politest  Frenchman  treats  us,  than  we 
like  the  persistence  with  which  he  appears  to  esteem  his 


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French  Traits 


own  personality  a matter  of  no  moment  to  any  one  but 
himself.  We  are  as  solicitous  to  impress  him  with  our 
qualities  as  he  seems  to  be  to  impress  us  with  his  accom- 
plishments; and  we  resent  what  we  insist  on  considering 
his  carefulness  to  conceal  his  real  opinions,  disposition, 
character  in  the  same  measure  in  which  we  are  piqued  by 
his  concentration  upon  our  own  superficial  graces — or  our 
lack  of  any.  Ingrained  frivolity,  absolute  superficiality, 
is  invariably  our  verdict — secret  or  outspoken  according 
to  the  degree  of  our  weakness  for  seeing  the  charm  of 
purely  objective  and  impersonal  intercourse  illustrated  by 
others  in  a perfection  only  consistent,  as  we  profoundly, 
though  perfunctorily,  believe,  with  a lack  of  deep  and 
large  sincerity  of  character.  It  is  so  difficult  for  us  to 
realize  that  in  manners,  as  the  French  understand  them, 
there  is  no  more  question  of  character  than  there  is  in  any 
other  fine-art.  They  illustrate  the  individual’s  ideal,  not 
himself;  his  aspirations,  not  his  qualities;  and  his  ideal 
and  aspirations  in  an  absolutely  impersonal  sphere  where 
what  serves  as  stimulus,  and  all  that  is  at  stake  are  the 
sense  of  external  propriety  and  the  artistic  fitness  of 
things. 

How  exquisitely  adapted  the  French  are  to  excel  in  pre- 
cisely this  sphere  is  indicated,  I think,  by  the  thread  of 
this  essay.  The  social  instinct  which  subordinates  the 
individual  and  suppresses  eccentricity,  the  social  and 
tolerant  nature  of  a morality  which  dictates  conformity 
to  general  rather  than  personal  standards,  a highly  devel- 
oped intelligence  and  the  absence  of  that  sentimentality  in 
conjunction  with  which  it  is  impossible  to  find  the  refine- 
ment of  manners  which  is  based  on  reason,  however  it 
may  inspire  that  politesse  de  coeur  in  which  Prince  Bismarck 
finds  the  French  lacking,  afford  precisely  the  conditions 


Manners 


129 


for  producing  in  perfection  an  impersonal,  artificial,  grace- 
ful, and  efficient  medium  of  social  intercourse.  And,  in 
fact,  of  manners,  as  the  French  understand  and  illustrate 
them,  it  may  be  said  that  we  lack  even  the  conception. 
Of  other  manifestations  of  the  artistic  spirit  we  at  least 
permit  ourselves  the  luxury  of  an  ideal.  It  does  not 
“cost  much  anyhow,”  we  say;  and  indeed  it  does  not, 
much  of  it;  our  painting  and  sculpture  and  poetry  and 
music  have  cost  as  little  probably  as  the  fine-art  of  any 
nation  of  the  world  that  has  devoted  any  attention  what- 
ever to  fine-art.  Our  amateurs  and  artists  are  neverthe- 
less active  and  numerous,  and  it  can  no  longer  be  said 
of  us  that  fine-art  does  not  occupy  a considerable  share  of 
our  attention.  In  what  is  sometimes  esoterically  called 
“household  art  ” we  are  even  already  distinguished.  A 
few  New  York  palaces  vie  with  those  of  Genoa — whose 
“ household  art  ” had  a similar  origin;  on  the  other  hand 
the  chromo  and  the  Christmas-card  have  penetrated  social 
strata  which  in  France  enjoy  only  white  and  blue  wash. 
But  as  for  the  manifestation  of  this  same  artistic  expan- 
siveness in  social  life  and  manners,  the  idea  simply  never 
occurs  to  us.  It  would  be  a pardonably  fanciful  exagger- 
ation to  say  that  by  manners  we  are  very  generally  apt 
to  understand  “table  manners;”  it  is  at  least  true  that 
we  use  the  terms  manners  and  etiquette  interconvertibly, 
and  in  a narrowly  specific  sense.  In  “ table  manners,”  as 
a rule,  we  excel.  We  are  not  perhaps  so  distinguished  as 
the  English,  from  whom  we  inherit  the  conception,  but  it 
is  generally  conceded  in  France  I suppose  that  the  Eng- 
lish and  Americans  “eat  better”  than  the  rest  of  the 
world.  “ Table  manners,”  however,  as  Anglo-Saxons  illus- 
trate them,  are  rather  a department  of  science  than  of 
fine-art.  A solecism  in  them  has  a fatal  importance,  and 


9 


130 


French  Traits 


a mistake  is  mathematically  an  error;  they  offer  no  field 
for  that  human  quality  which  is  necessary  to  constitute 
art.  The  French  certainly  do  not  “eat  well;”  that  is  to 
say,  as  a rule.  French  people  would  at  table  permit 
themselves,  and  overlook  in  others,  phenomena  which 
Anglo-Saxons  of  the  same  social  grade  would  not  permit 
themselves  and  still  less  overlook  in  others.  But  in  other 
ways  they  certainly  carry  manners  to  an  extent  we  but 
vaguely  appreciate  and  perhaps  a little  disapprove.  It  is 
indeed  noteworthy  that  all  other  manifestations  of  the 
artistic  spirit  they  are  apt  to  make  subsidiary  and  sub- 
servient to  manners;  whereas  we  consider  these  ends  in 
themselves  very  often,  as  the  Talmud  does  study,  and  the 
English  neopagans  consider  dress.  In  France  they  are 
popularly  regarded  as  humanizing  agents,  a higher  class 
of  social  influences  perfecting  the  mind  and  temper  and 
preparing  them  for  success  in  the  one  great  art  of  life 
from  the  French  standpoint  — social  intercourse.  The 
opera,  the  Salons , the  expositions  retrospectives , the  concours 
hippiques  anti  agronomiques,  classical  concerts,  the  theatre 
itself  afford  to  countless  people — secondarily,  to  be  sure,  a 
great  deal  of  indirect  enjoyment,  more  intelligent  enjoy- 
ment, very  certainly,  than  is  anywhere  else  to  be  wit- 
nessed, as  the  occasion  of  it  is  almost  invariably  superior 
to  such  things  elsewhere — but,  primarily  and  directly, 
social  rendezvous  on  a large  scale  and  of  a gay  character. 
Artists  complain  loudly  of  this.  The  Theatre  Fran^ais  is, 
two  days  in  the  week,  transformed  into  a social  court,  as 
it  were,  before  which  the  actors  play  as,  mutatis  mutatidis, 
their  predecessors  used  to  before  Louis  XIV. ; the  play  is 
distinctly  not  “the  thing;’’  the  thing  is  the  rendezvous. 
The  two  arts  in  which  the  French  excel  all  peoples,  ancient 
or  modern,  with  possibly  the  exception  of  the  Athenians 


Manners 


131 

for  a brief  period,  comedy  and  conversation,  namely,  are 
particularly  adapted  to  French  excellence  because  of  their 
intimate  and  inextricable  connection  with  manners.  Paint- 
ing and  music  and  poetry  are  all  very  well,  but  they  neces- 
sarily take  the  second  rank  after  manners  in  French 
esteem,  and  French  proficiency  as  well,  because  as  pro- 
fessions they  are  limited,  whereas  in  manners  all  French- 
men are  artists. 

What  degree  of  perfection  comedy  has  reached  in 
France  it  would  be  a wholly  superfluous  undertaking  to 
point  out.  It  is  conceived  in  a larger,  more  universal 
way  than  elsewhere.  The  muse  of  comedy  presides  over 
every  Thespian  temple.  Tragedy  still  has  her  stilts  on, 
not  because  the  French  have  never  heard  of  Euripides 
and  Shakespeare,  but  because  everything  not  distinctly 
grandiose  falls  naturally  into  the  domain  of  comedy. 
The  mere  titles  la  Comedie  Frangaise,  la  Comedie 
Humaine,  l’Opera  Comique — where  Auber  and  Herold 
dominate  Offenbach  and  Lecocq — indicate  the  extension 
given  to  the  term  which  thus  includes  every  mimic  repre- 
sentation of  reality  from  Le  Misanthrope  to  the  veriest 
vaudeville.  And  the  stream  of  French  comedy  inundates 
and  fertilizes  all  Europe.  From  Stockholm  to  Seville  and 
from  London  to  Moscow  it  is  a commonplace  that  every 
stage-manager  and  every  dramatic  author  looks  constantly 
toward  Paris,  where  each  has  learned  his  trade  and  whence 
most  have  borrowed  their  substance.  And  in  the  art  of 
conversation,  which  plays  in  private  life  the  part  of  col- 
loquy on  the  stage,  the  nation  is  equally  unrivalled.  All 
the  French  activities  are  called  into  exercise,  and  all 
French  qualities  are  illustrated  in  the  conversational 
crackle  and  sparkle  of  daily  intercourse,  in  which  con- 
stant practice  and  ceaseless  pleasure  lead  to  a marvellous 


132 


French  Traits 


artistic  proficiency.  At  the  table,  in  the  drawing-room, 
in  the  cafes,  in  the  open-air  public  rendezvous  which 
abound  everywhere  and  vary  in  importance  but  hardly  in 
character  from  the  Champs  Elysees  or  the  potiniere  of  the 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  to  the  little  place  or  boule- 
vard exterieur  of  a village  en  province , at  every  leisure 
moment  of  the  day — and  overflowing  into  the  hours  of 
industry,  which  themselves,  indeed,  are  never,  even  in 
their  most  secret  recesses,  sheltered  from  its  spray — the 
stream  of  conversation  ripples  ceaselessly  on  and  on.  All 
Frenchmen  breathe  the  atmosphere  thus  affected  and, 
however  great  their  differences,  are  thus  subject  in  com- 
mon to  a potent  unifying  influence;  so  that  each  individ- 
ual, even  supposing  him  to  have  no  natural  bent  therefor, 
no  Gallic  alertness  and  lingual  felicity,  becomes  an  edu- 
cated artist  in  the  great  French  art.  To  be  convinced  of 
this,  one  does  not  need  to  remind  himself  of  the  Hotel 
Rambouillet,  of  the  salons  which  since  Richelieu’s  time 
have  flourished  on  every  hand,  of  the  society  of  the  grand 
sihle ; one  has  only  to  enter  a caf£  or  even  a cabaret,  or 
chat  with  an  omnibus-driver,  or  one’s  next  neighbor  in 
black  coat  or  blouse  on  a seat  in  a public  square. 

About  this  conversation  there  are  two  striking  peculiari- 
ties: It  is  in  the  first  place  literally  ^//versation,  and  in 
the  second  it  is,  like  any  other  fine-art,  practised  for  its 
own  sake.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  in  each  of  these 
respects  French  conversation  differs  from  our  own.  What 
in  general  passes  for  good  conversation  with  us  is  really 
monologue — sometimes,  in  fact,  so  circumscribed  as  to 
constitute  a sort  of  informal  lecture;  what  the  French, 
indeed  (who  are  strangers  to  our  lyceum,  for  which  they 
substitute  a considerable  higher  education),  call  a con- 
ference. This  is  the  sense  in  which  it  is  discussed  by  Dr. 


Manners 


133 


Holmes,  than  whom  no  one  has  touched  the  subject  with 
a lighter  charm.  Dr.  Holmes’s  view  of  conversation  is 
extremely  autocratic,  and  would  be  intolerable  to  a demo- 
cratic people  like  the  French.  In  his  opinion  the  cardinal 
offence  is  interruption;  the  literal  and  unimaginative 
interrupter  is  the  individual  he  denounces,  but  it  is  plain 
that  it  is  the  fact  of  the  interruption  not  the  interruption 
of  fact  (as  he  might  say)  that  really  exasperates  him. 
French  conversation  is  in  great  part  made  up  of  interrup- 
tions. Its  essence  consists  in  “give  and  take.’’  The 
most  brilliant  conversationalist  is  he,  or  she  (for  in  France 
women  practise  this  art  as  well  as  men),  who  succeeds  best 
in  donner  la  replique.  Hence  epigram  and  repartee  abound. 
With  us  the  analogous  triumph  is  to  state  some  truth, 
sentiment,  fact  most  felicitously  and  to  draw  from  it  some 
apposite  conclusion.  Hence  the  little  preachments,  anec- 
dotes, sermonettes  which  season  our  dinners.  As  for  post- 
prandial  eloquence,  in  which  our  prandial  conversation  so 
often  culminates  upon  the  slightest  excuse,  to  which  it  is 
merely  the  modest  prelude,  and  toward  which  it  tends 
with  increasing  momentum  from  the  soup  on,  it  is  nearly 
unknown  in  France.  Imagine  Mr.  Evarts  at  a French 
dinner.  On  such  an  occasion  his  “speech”  (for  which 
the  French  language  has  no  word)  would,  we  may  be 
sure,  be  qualified  with  an  epithet  for  which  the  English 
tongue  has  no  equivalent;  it  would  be  pronounced  assom- 
mant.  And  after  the  formal  speaking  at  a Delmonico 
dinner,  say,  is  over,  and  the  toasts  (another  word  which 
illustrates  the  poverty  of  the  French  vocabulary)  have  all 
been  drunk,  and  what  we  understand  by  general  conversa- 
tion again  sets  in,  conducted  by  General  Horace  Porter, 
that  prince  of  anecdotists,  the  Frenchman  would  certainly 
find  himself  at  fault.  In  an  analogous  position  at  home 


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he  would  be  sure  to  interrupt.  The  French  raconteur  is, 
it  is  true,  a well-known  type,  but  he  is  oftener  than  not, 
perhaps,  a bore,  owing  in  great  measure  to  the  perfection 
to  which  he  has  carried  his  style,  which  tempts  him  to 
apply  it  to  the  decorative  presentment  of  wholly  trivial 
substance.  And  in  France  when  a man  is  a bore  the  fact 
is  discovered  with  electric  promptitude.  And  in  any 
event,  bore  or  not,  the  raconteur  never  enjoys  the  esteem 
of  our  “good-story-teller,”  who  frequently  possesses  not 
merely  a local  but  a national  reputation,  as  it  is  called. 
The  introduction  of  the  personal  note  is  distinctly  dis- 
agreeable. The  force  of  our  “ good-story-teller  ” though 
always  personal  is  often  histrionic,  and  the  French  have,  it 
is  true,  a talent  and  a passion  for  acting.  But  even  in 
acting  they  care  most  for  the  ensemble.  On  the  stage  an 
actor  who  should  force  his  part  into  the  foreground  would 
displease,  however  admirable  in  itself  his  performance 
might  be.  And  in  actual  life  the  social  comes  to  the  aid 
of  the  artistic  instinct  in  protecting  an  entire  company 
from  resolving  itself  into  a lyceum  audience  and  an  ama- 
teur lecturer. 

French  conversation  thus  is  social  and  artistic  first  of 
all — never  personal  and  utilitarian.  Communication  being 
its  end,  it  is  moreover  always  admirably  clear.  Precision 
is  as  eminent  a characteristic  of  spoken  as  of  written 
French.  Each  nuance , and  nuances  abound,  is  unmistaka- 
ble. More  even  than  bv  its  grace  and  its  vivacity  it  con- 
trasts with  our  own  more  serious  conversation  in  absolute 
exactness.  The  exactness  is  in  expression  merely;  it 
never  becomes  literal  and  exacting.  When  a trivial  mis- 
take is  made,  a sophism  uttered,  a person  or  thing  unfairly 
ridiculed  or  ridiculously  praised,  the  Frenchman  does  not 
experience  the  temptation,  so  irresistible  with  us,  to  set 


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135 


wrong  right  at  any  expense  to  the  conversation.  The 
conversation  itself  is  the  object  of  his  solicitude.  Be- 
sides, he  realizes  that  out  of  the  pulpit  persiflage  is  as 
potent  as  preaching.  His  expertness  in  treating  serious 
subjects  with  the  light  touch  that  avoids  flippancy  has  its 
moral  side  as,  imitating  Carlyle’s  obtuseness  about  Vol- 
taire, we  are  slow  to  perceive.  With  us  it  is  the  essential 
levity  of  the  subject  discussed  rather  than  a deft  and 
lively  treatment  of  it  that  causes  the  superficial  sparkle. 
We  associate  the  two  things  so  closely  as  to  infer  one 
from  the  presence  of  the  other,  an  error  which  French 
clearness  avoids.  Hence  French  conversation  is  far  freer 
than  ours.  It  not  only  compromises  no  personality,  and 
essays  no  ulterior  result,  but  its  scope  and  style  are  in  con- 
sequence very  extensive  and  very  varied.  It  has  terms 
summing  up  phases  of  social  life,  to  characterize  which  we 
should  need  long  phrases,  and  employs  them  as  counters, 
as  bankers  do  checks  and  drafts  instead  of  exchanging 
coin.  It  tends  naturally  out  of  its  abundance  to  include 
topics  with  which  we  easily  dispense,  in  mixed  company  at 
all  events.  It  is  very  outspoken  without  being  brutal.  It 
makes,  indeed,  such  a specialty  of  suggestion  for  the  sake 
of  the  art  itself  as  sometimes  to  lose  all  sense  of  the  sub- 
stance suggested;  otherwise  at  least  some  allusions  are 
unaccountable.  And  this  freedom,  which  occasionally  no 
doubt  fringes  license — but  probably  less  often  than  with 
us  offends  the  proprieties  conventionally  determined — 
helps  to  confer  the  great  charm  of  naturalness  upon 
French  intercourse.  One’s  impulses  find  themselves  less 
restrained  in  being  more  explicitly  directed.  The  manner 
is  as  artificial  as  you  choose,  the  matter  is  apt  to  be  genu- 
ine and  to  lack  the  quality  which  constitutes  pose.  On  a 
high  level  and  in  a rarefied  atmosphere  there  is  far  more 


136 


French  Traits 


naturalness  because  there  is  a greater  sense  of  freedom 
than  in  the  lower  regions,  amid  denser  air,  in  which  the 
sense  of  freedom  is  really  the  lack  of  energy  and  to  issue 
out  of  which  demands  discipline  and  attention. 

“ But  are  they  sincere?”  is  the  universal  Anglo-Saxon 
demand  in  reply  to  all  that  one  can  say  in  characteriza- 
tion of  French  manners  and  of  their  articulate  manifesta- 
tion in  the  exquisite  art  of  French  conversation.  On  this 
point  we  are,  apparently,  all  agreed.  Charming,  intelli- 
gent, graceful,  everything  else  you  will  that  is  admirable; 
at  that  vague  quality  known  to  us  as  sincerity  we  draw 
the  line.  A recent  clever  book  makes  a character  say  that 
“ French  sincerity  is  a subject  he  never  cares  to  enter  upon. 
He  likes  too  many  French  people.”  That  is  the  utmost 
concession  I at  least  have  ever  seen  made.  Yet  an  intelli- 
gent observer  familiar  with  the  French  must,  I think, 
whether  he  like  them  or  not,  feel  disposed  to  plead  weari- 
ness whenever  the  time-honored  question  of  French  sincer- 
ity is  mooted  anew.  One  sympathizes  with  Hawthorne’s 
exasperation  at  the  public  curiosity  concerning  the  ears 
of  his  Donatello.  In  this  instance  also  a delightful  and 
delicate  thing  is  being  brutally  treated.  The  stupidity 
is  carried  so  far  as  to  awaken  that  sense  of  helpless  re- 
sentment which  one  feels  in  the  presence  of  wilful  wrong- 
headedness on  a large  scale  among  intelligent  people.  The 
truth  is  the  French  are  as  sincere  as  any  other  people, 
only  they  manifest  the  virtue  in  their  own  way.  French 
manners  include  a great  deal  of  compliment,  and  com- 
pliment is  taken  literally  only  by  the  savage.  To  argue 
individual  insincerity  from  the  perfection  which  compli- 
ment has  reached  among  the  French  is  like  arguing  that 
every  American  who  pays  his  bills  in  silver  dollars  is 
personally  corrupt.  Compliment  is  merely  the  current 


Manners 


i37 


coin  of  the  French  social  realm.  Nor  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  is  it  actually  debased.  Very  slight  familiarity  with 
French  compliment  is  sufficient  to  enable  one  to  see  that 
the  French  sense  of  intellectual  self-respect  almost  invari- 
ably prevents  them  from  trusting  solely  to  the  intelligence 
of  the  complimented  for  a complete  understanding  of  the 
fact  that  the  accuracy  of  compliment  is  not  that  of  alge- 
bra. Somewhere  in  most  French  compliments  you  are 
sure  to  find  the  intellectual  corrective  of  their  sensuous 
charm.  Your  unfamiliarity  with  this  circumstance  and 
your  failure  to  notice  it  may  lead  you  to  blush  at  the 
moment  of  receiving  a genuine  French  compliment  your- 
self, but  subsequent  reflection  is  apt  to  make  you  blush  at 
having  blushed;  there  was  really,  you  will  infallibly  per- 
ceive, less  cause  for  confusion  than  you  imagined.  Take, 
for  example,  a typical  compliment  by  a characteristically 
courteous  and  sincere  Frenchman.  During  a visit  to  Eng- 
land in  1868  the  late  Prevost-Paradol  was  received  “ avec 
ces  empressements  flatteurs,  ” says  a French  writer,  “ que 
la  societe  anglaise  sait  si  bien  prodiguer  pour  peu  que 
l’envie  lui  en  prenne  ” — “with  those  flattering  attentions 
which  English  society  knows  so  well  how  to  lavish  when 
it  happens  to  take  a notion  to  do  so.”  Ladies  contended 
for  the  honor  of  being  taken  down  to  dinner  by  the  bril- 
liant French  journalist.  The  London  press  commenting 
on  this  engouement , and  on  its  striking  contrast  with  the 
lack  of  consideration  manifested  for  English  journalists  of 
equal  parts,  called  attention  anew  to  the  important  role 
which  the  esteem  of  his  compatriots  permits  the  French 
journalist  personally  to  play  in  his  own  country; — to 
which  the  Frenchman  naturally  replied  by  a compliment. 
“ Un  Franqais,”  said  he,  “ a rarement  une  passion  reelle 
pour  le  veritable  pouvoir  ou  pour  la  fortune.  Son  ambi- 


French  Traits 


138 


tion  vise  surtout  a la  reputation,  a l’eloge,  a l’espoir  de 
donner  une  haute  idee  de  lui  a ses  concitoyens,  ou  meme 
k un  cercle  etroit  de  familiers;  il  se  console  aisement  de 
bien  des  deboires  s’  il  peut  croire  que  ceux  qui  l’entourent 
le  considerent  comme  superieur  a sa  fortune.  Il 

donne  le  premier  rang  aux  plaisirs  de  1 ’ esprit ; ’ ’ — “A 
Frenchman  rarely  has  a sincere  passion  for  real  power  or 
for  fortune.  His  ambition  is  above  all  else  to  achieve  a 
reputation,  to  win  eulogiums,  to  succeed  in  giving  a high 
idea  of  himself  to  his  fellow-citizens,  or  even  to  a narrow 
circle  of  intimate  friends.  He  is  easily  consoled  for  many 
mortifications  if  he  can  convince  himself  that  those  who 
surround  him  consider  him  superior  to  his  fortune.  He 
gives  the  first  place  to  the  pleasures  of  the  mind.”  Fancy 
the  audience  to  which  that  compliment  was  addressed 
speculating  as  to  its  sincerity! 

The  truth  is  that  the  matter  of  personal  genuineness  is 
not  at  all  in  question.  So  far  as  sincerity  in  compliment 
is  concerned  it  depends  upon  the  specific  truth  or  falsity 
of  the  words  employed  and  their  impersonal  suggestion. 
Of  course  the  French  do  intrude  the  personal  equation 
into  this  sphere;  they  do  occasionally  endeavor  to  make 
one  believe  they  mean  what  they  say  in  a special  and 
intense  sense;  the  phenomenon  is  not  absolutely  unknown. 
But  it  is  far  less  common  than  with  us;  and  it  invariably 
denotes  in  the  practitioner  a lower  grade  of  person.  The 
large  part  played  by  the  emotions  in  our  activities  of  this 
kind  causes  us  to  regard  the  passage  from  compliment  to 
flattery  as  venial  whenever  the  heart  is  in  the  right  place. 
The  circumstance  that  compliment  is  in  France  a fine-art 
makes  the  same  error  there  far  more  grave,  and  conse- 
quently far  less  frequent.  It  becomes  a sign  of  grossilrete 
— which  is  the  French  unpardonable  sin. 


Manners 


39 


Furthermore  the  French  compliment  never  means  more 
than  it  says.  The  national  turn  for-intelligence  serves  as 
a great  safeguard  for  sincerity  here,  whereas  if  we  exam- 
ine closely  our  own  way  of  allowing  the  heart  to  dictate 
to  the  judgment  we  cannot  fail  to  see  how  inexact  our 
sincerity  often  becomes.  The  Frenchman  if  he  wishes  to 
compliment  you  will  select  some  point  about  you  that  will 
bear  it.  His  language  regarding  this  may  at  first  (and, 
as  I have  indicated,  only  at  first)  seem  exaggerated,  but 
the  basis  of  it  will  be  sound.  With  us  in  sincere  instances 
the  process  is  this:  a genuine  esteem  precedes  the  desire 
to  please;  the  desire  to  please  takes  the  form  of  an  expres- 
sion of  this  general  feeling  of  esteem;  this  form  itself  has 
nothing  more  to  do  with  the  facts  it  states  than  had  the 
compliant  admissions  of  Polonius  to  Hamlet,  “ very  like  a 
whale,”  “it  is  backed  like  a weasel” — which  furnish  a 
not  bad  illustration  indeed  of  our  ordinary  form  of  com- 
pliment, all  question  of  Polonius’s  fundamental  sincerity, 
of  course,  aside. 

The  foreigner’s  notion  that  the  French  “ do  everything 
with  an  air  ” is  perfectly  sound.  The  author  of  “ Living 
Paris,”  who  is  an  unusually  liberal  observer,  adds  that 
“ they  do  it  all  the  same.”  This  is  quite  true.  If  there 
was  ever  a practical  and  positive  people  under  the  sun  it 
is  the  French.  But  it  answers  only  an  elementary  vulgar 
error.  A more  plausible  yet  equally  erroneous  notion  is 
that  this  “ air  ” is  affected  and  theatrical.  Theatrical  it 
may  sometimes  become  in  that  excess  which  is  uncon- 
genial to  the  French  character  and  therefore  rare.  But 
the  noticeable  thing  about  it  is  that  it  is  not  theatrical. 
Such  poses,  tones,  and  gesture  as  are  common  to  our 
stage  and  occasionally  overflow  into  so  opposite  a place  as 
our  pulpit  would  excite  amazement  at  a theatre  de  banlieue. 


140 


French  Traits 


Dramatic  is  the  true  epithet  for  that  systematization  of 
expression  noticeable  in  the  French.  The  “air”  with 
which  they  do  everything  has  nothing  of  ill-regulated 
emotion  in  it;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  is  it  often  charac- 
terized by  that  sensuous  magic  inseparable  from  Italian 
native  grace.  It  is  in  nowise  sentimental;  it  is  simply 
expressive.  It  may  be  more  or  less  ornate,  now  struct- 
ural, now  decorative,  as  individuals  differ.  But  what  is 
to  be  noted  is  that  it  is  invariably  the  “air”  which  the 
individual  deems  appropriate,  and  that  fitness  is  his  sole 
criterion.  The  reason  for  our  failure  to  perceive  this  is 
that  in  every  serious  matter  we  rely  on  the  impression 
produced  by  personal  character  to  convey  its  importance 
to  the  listener  or  spectator.  The  more  weighty  the  sub- 
stance the  more  condensed  the  statement,  the  more  poetic 
the  theme  the  balder,  or  at  least  the  briefer,  its  expres- 
sion. In  fine  our  idea  of  expression  is  repression.  We 
appeal  to  the  imagination,  not  to  the  sense  or  the  reason. 
We  find  the  French  “air”  theatrical  instead  of  logically 
and  aptly  dramatic  because  our  ideal  is  to  have  no  “ air  ” 
at  all.  We  are  egoists,  not  artists;  it  is  not  what  we  say 
or  do  that  we  wish  to  count,  but  ourselves. 

Hence  manifestly  the  confusion  of  which  we  are  guilty 
in  accusing  the  French  of  affectation  at  the  same  time 
that  we  speak  of  them  as  naturally  theatrical.  But  they 
are  no  more  affected  than  they  are  theatrical.  By  our 
exaltation  of  character  over  manners,  by  our  adjusting  of 
manners  to  personal  expression,  by  our  sentimental  and 
inartistic  substitution  of  a thoroughly  contained  and 
intense  air  for  the  natural  and  spontaneous  one  which 
fits  the  thought,  we  are  in  far  graver  peril  from  this  subtle 
foe  than  is  the  Frenchman,  whose  manner  alone,  at  any 
rate,  is  attacked  and  whose  character  escapes.  Tell  over 


Manners 


141 


scrupulously  the  list  of  your  friends,  American  or  English. 
H ow  many  of  them  are  there  who  do  not  affect  some 
character  or  other,  some  moral  role  foreign  to  their  native 
disposition,  with  which  their  effort  to  harmonize  their 
demeanor  is  quite  as  obvious  as  it  is  successful?  In  one’s 
own  case  this  may  be  aspiration,  but  in  that  of  others  it  is 
invariably  affectation.  And  the  attempt  to  impose  it 
results  in  a kind  of  pervasive  and  general  hypocrisy 
beside  which  the  explicit  and  definite  cafardise  of  the 
French  has  the  merit  of  being  a frank  foe.  In  France  a 
man’s  valuation  of  himself  is  much  more  nearly  that  which 
his  friends  set  upon  him.  Even  in  the  French  manner 
what  we  mistake  for  affectation  is  merely  intention.  To 
bring  all  one’s  physical  activities  into  the  sphere  of  cul- 
ture and  reason,  to  suit  the  gesture  to  the  word  and  the 
word  to  the  thought,  to  stand  and  walk  and  sit  decorously, 
to  enter  a room,  to  bow  to  a lady,  to  carry  on  a tete-a-tete, 
or  share  a general  conversation,  to  avoid  controversy,  to 
attain  repose — to  do  all  this  respectably  requires  inten- 
tion. So  far  as  communities  are  concerned  fine  natural 
manners  are  a myth,  but  this  probably  does  not  prevent 
the  Sioux  and  Apaches  from  considering  our  manners  arti- 
ficial, or  us  from  finding  affectation  in  those  of  the  French, 
owing  to  the  distinctness  which  unfamiliarity  gives  to 
intention  in  either  instance,  and  to  the  failure  in  each 
case  to  appreciate  the  importance  of  intention  in  every- 
thing of  importance. 

In  fine  the  vulgar  mistrust  of  French  sincerity  is  based 
on  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  fact  that  French  man- 
ners are  studied,  artificial,  conventional,  which  does  not 
of  course  mean  that  they  are  of  necessity  inelastic  or 
excessive  or  superficial,  but  that  the  French  put  the  same 
intention  into  manners  that  all  civilized  peoples  do  into 


142 


French  Traits 


language,  and  have  systematized  them  with  the  same  care 
for  correctness  on  the  one  hand  and  pliability  on  the 
other.  We  have  no  exactly  equivalent  word  for  what  the 
French  call  tenue , and  if  we  have  exactly  the  thing  it  is 
infinitely  less  developed  and  less  nearly  universal  than  in 
France,  where  it  is  as  characteristic  of  manners  as  are  the 
impersonal  and  artistic  spirit.  Tenue  means  restraint, 
order,  measure,  style,  consciousness,  intention  in  de- 
meanor and  bearing.  Owing  to  his  natural  turn  for  these 
qualities  the  Frenchman  is  rarely  tempted  to  permit  him- 
self indiscretions.  He  is  not  solicited  by  whimsical  im- 
pulses. He  has  no  desire  for  relaxation,  and  does  not 
chafe  under  restraint.  It  is  not  difficult  for  him  to  feel  at 
ease  in  an  erect  posture;  he  supports  the  greater  muscular 
tension  involved  with  less  evident  fatigue;  his  hands  do 
not  automatically  seek  his  trousers’  pockets  nor  his  knees 
cross  one  another.  Consciousness  and  self-consciousness 
are  not  identical  terms  to  him.  Nor  does  the  artificiality 
of  the  drawing-room  atmosphere  oppress  him  and  entice 
him  into  mistaking  buffoonery  for  the  talismanic  touch  of 
thawing  nature,  into  spasmodic  laughter,  into  long  stories, 
into  that  amusement  of  the  ensemble,  which  involves  neg- 
lect of  the  members,  of  the  company.  Of  course  perfect 
breeding  is  perfect  breeding  the  world  over.  But  the 
perfectly  bred  man  is  born,  not  bred,  if  the  paradox 
may  be  permitted.  The  mass  of  mankind  have  no  more 
genius  for  manners  than  for  tight-rope  dancing,  but  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  mass  of  Frenchmen  have  a talent  for 
them  in  adding  a talent  for  tenue  to  the  social  and  the 
artistic  instincts. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  any  bourgeois  interior  the 
entire  absence  of  form  characteristic  of  many  of  our  own 
average  homes.  Not  that  in  moments  — or  hours  — of 


Manners 


143 


mutual  ennui  and  common  delassement , the  average  bour- 
geois interior  does  not,  from  the  point  of  view  of  pure 
form,  leave  something  to  be  desired.  But,  in  seasons  of 
entire  sanity,  the  respective  shapes  expansiveness  takes  in 
a French  home  and  in  one  of  our  own  differ  prodigiously. 
Take  a large  French  family  reunion.  Few  social  pictures 
are  prettier.  There  is  very  likely  an  entire  absence  of 
that  hearty  familiarity  which  characterizes  our  Thanks- 
giving or  Christmas  gatherings.  The  children  do  not 
romp,  the  grown  people  do  not  appear  as  if  at  last  the 
moment  had  come  when  all  outward  restraint  and  formal- 
ity could  be  thrown  aside  with  a clear  conscience.  The 
visitors  do  not  “ make  themselves  perfectly  at  home,”  the 
hosts  do  not  invite  them  to  do  so,  or  treat  them  as  if  such 
were  the  case.  There  is  everywhere  perfectly  apparent 
the  French  veneer  of  artificial  courtesy.  Children  are 
treated  with  politeness  and  not  hugged;  babies  are  ban- 
ished— are  generally,  in  fact,  in  a state  of  chronic  exile;  if 
at  times  every  one  is  talking  at  once  it  is  evidently  because 
of  the  social  desire  to  contribute  to  the  conversation, 
rather  than  because  of  the  unsocial  disposition  to  neglect 
one’s  neighbor’s  appreciations — an  abysmal  difference  in 
itself;  there  are  no  uncomfortable  silences  passed  in  sim- 
ply “sitting  ’round”  and  cudgelling  one’s  brains  as  to 
what  to  do  next;  the  great  art  and  enjoyment  of  social 
life  being  conversation — exchange  of  ideas,  or  notions, 
original  or  trite,  but  always  cast  in  more  or  less  careful 
form — games  are  far  seldomer  than  among  us  resorted  to 
as  a substitute,  and  being  invariably  for  money  probably 
owe  their  popularity  to  the  ingrained  French  disposition 
toward  avarice;  an  avarice  which  always  seems  curious  to 
us  but  about  which  in  its  milder  manifestations  there  is 
never  any  concealment.  Games  themselves  are  never 


144 


French  Traits 


conducted  in  silence.  The  solemn  stillness  that  with  us 
accompanies  the  rubber  of  whist  which  is  more  and  more 
tending  to  become,  even  as  played  by  the  young  and  friv- 
olous, a tremendously  serious  thing,  and  which  indicates 
clearly  that  the  game  is  an  end  in  itself  and  not  a pastime, 
is  unknown  outside  the  clubs  in  France.  An  occasional 
old  gentleman,  who  when  the  stakes  are  high  insists  on  a 
subordination  of  talk  and  vigorously  represses  his  part- 
ner’s tendency  to  discursiveness,  is  voted  a nuisance. 
Naturally  thus,  there  is  nowhere  to  be  seen,  perhaps,  such 
wretched  whist-playing  as  in  French  salons. 

Universally  in  French  interiors  an  American  perceives 
at  once  the  absence  of  effort  at  “ entertaining  people,”  in 
our  phrase.  The  entertainment  is  a phenomenon  spon- 
taneously generated  when  people  come  together.  The 
various  social  amusements  are  certainly  cultivated;  dan- 
cing and  singing  and  the  piano  are,  of  course,  merely  sub- 
ordinated, not  suppressed — one  cannot  converse  forever. 
But  dancing  is  nowhere  the  passion  that  it  is  with  us;  if  it 
were,  the  French,  who  dance  detestably,  would  perhaps 
dance  better.  People  dance,  but  then,  also,  occasionally, 
they  desist  from  dancing;  in  the  cotillion  the  prettiness  of 
the  figure  occupies  much  more  attention  than  its  duration. 
As  for  music  the  French  are  decidedly  ahead  of  us.  They 
already  very  generally  recognize  the  caricature  which 
ordinary  amateur  effort  is;  they  are  well  known  to  have 
far  less  respect  than  our  race  for  what  bores  them;  and 
now  that  so  much  professional  effort  is  had  at  soirees  they 
have  become  exacting  and  only  extraordinary  amateur 
skill  is  tolerated.  As  for  our  readings,  Browning  socie- 
ties, and  in  general  the  class  of  literary  entertainment 
provided  by  the  thousands  of  provincial  and  rural  “socia- 
bles ” from  one  end  of  our  country  to  the  other — many  of 


Manners 


H5 


these  half-acknowledged  pisallers  would  seem  grotesque  to 
the  most  long-suffering  Latin;  in  France,  especially,  elo- 
cution and  erudition,  general  and  special  information  and 
all  cognate  acquirements  are  taken  seriously.  The  end 
and  aim  of  society  is  in  fact  simply  human  intercourse, 
decorated  with  infinite  variety  but  never  needing  to  be 
buttressed — recognized  as  a natural  satisfaction  of  a pro- 
found instinct  and  needing  no  extraneous  stimulus,  only  a 
careful  and  elaborate  development  and  ordering. 

This  ordering  necessarily  results  in  uniformity  of  man- 
ners, and  uniformity  is  as  foreign  to  our  manners  as  is  the 
impersonal,  artistic,  or  conventional  spirit.  But  it  is  to 
be  observed  that  uniformity  of  manners  is  a great  human- 
izer.  It  is  perhaps  the  simplest  means  of  bringing  per- 
sons of  different  idiosyncrasies  into  sympathetic  relations. 
Our  own  diversity  is  grotesque  and  is  responsible  for  much 
estrangement  between  our  different  sections.  A Chicago 
journal,  for  example,  treating  of  courtship,  apostrophizes 
plaintively  “ the  turned-down  light,  the  single  chair,”  but 
it  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  the  milieu  thus  briefly 
characterized  is  congenial  to  all  of  us.  As  yet  with  us 
every  man  is  his  own  Chesterfield.  We  have  individuals 
with  the  charm  which  in  Emerson  struck  Carlyle  as  elabo- 
rate, not  to  say  excessive.  We  have  the  average  rural 
New  Englander  whom  Emerson  found  picturesque,  but 
whose  charm  is  distinctly  not  excessive.  We  have  the 
entire  gamut  run  by  the  Southron  describing  a dinner 
party  composed  to  his  sense  of  “an  elegant  gentleman 
from  Virginia,  a gentleman  from  Kentucky,  a man  from 
Ohio,  a fellow  from  New  York,  and  a galoot  from  Bos- 
ton.” Our  society  thus  has  the  advantage  of  not  being 
monotonous  to  the  artist;  but  the  dead  level  of  steel  rails 
has  this  superiority  over  the  interesting  diversity  of  cordu- 


io 


146 


French  Traits 


roy  roads  that  it  makes  travel  easier  and  arrival  more 
hopeful.  The  avoidance  of  friction  secured  is  incalcula- 
bly delightful.  The  social  machinery  so  scrupulously 
attended  to  runs  far  more  smoothly  than  ours,  which  we 
imagine  will  quite  take  care  of  itself  if  we  fulfil  the  con- 
dition that  made  such  a carver  of  men’s  casques  of  the 
sword  and  such  a sure-thruster  of  the  lance  of  the  pure- 
hearted  Sir  Galahad.  No  Frenchman  to  whom  you  talk 
punctuates  your  sentences  with  an  eager  and  admonitory 
“yes,  yes,  yes.”  Nor  does  appreciation  of  his  own  wit 
or  of  yours  involve  distracting  excursions.  Nor  does  he 
show  you  plainly  how  hard  it  is  for  him  to  wait  till  you 
have  finished,  or  let  his  attention  wander,  or  try  to  save 
time  by  the  surreptitious  reading  of  a letter  or  a glance  at 
a newspaper  heading,  or  indicate  in  any  way  as  so  many 
of  us  do,  the  manner  varying  with  individual  character, 
that  conversation  is  not  the  most  important  affair  in  the 
world.  He  knows  that  for  the  moment  it  is. 

On  the  other  hand  susceptibilities  escape  wounding  with 
a completeness  that  seems  as  wonderful  as  the  means  by 
which  it  is  secured  is  seen  to  be  simple.  In  France  it  is  in 
the  first  place  bad  manners  to  be  too  susceptible;  in  the 
second  place  it  is  a mark  of  that  conceit  always  ascribed 
to  a lack  of  intelligence;  in  the  third  place  one’s  suscepti- 
bility is  justly  wounded  only  when  an  offence  has  been 
committed  against  the  code  of  manners.  These  sound  like 
commonplaces.  But  they  are  practically  not  accepted  by 
us.  Practically  we  believe  in  “ taking  no  offence  where 
none  is  intended;’’  and  we  really  think  that  when  the 
social  code  of  the  Golden  Age  comes  to  be  discovered  this 
will  be  found  to  have  been  its  spirit  too.  On  the  contrary 
giving  unintentionally  just  ground  for  offence  is  precisely 
what  the  French  find  it  impossible  to  support.  Provided 


Manners 


47 


with  a conventional  and  uniform  code,  they  concentrate 
their  attention  upon  the  grossierete — to  them  the  most 
repugnant  quality  in  the  world  — of  the  offence,  and 
whether  or  no  it  be  accompanied  by  design,  by  malhon- 
netete ',  is  a subordinate  consideration.  Accompanied  by 
malhonnetete  it  may  or  may  not  be,  but  aggravated  by  it 
or  by  anything  it  cannot.  In  this  way  the  French  avoid 
the  habit  so  prevalent  with  us  of  always  seeking  the 
motive  of  every  one’s  speech  or  behavior  and  the  suspi- 
cion, the  morbid  sensitiveness,  which  is  the  inevitable 
result  of  this  habit.  So  long  as  the  convenances  remain 
undisturbed  people’s  motives  are  assumed  to  be  amiable. 
It  is  our  notion  on  the  contrary  that  observance  of  con- 
ventions can  mean  very  little,  and  our  own  experience,  in 
fact,  teaches  us  that  they  are  often  extremely  deceptive 
indices  of  both  the  feelings  and  the  character.  So  long, 
accordingly,  as  we  are  sure  that  a person  is  well-disposed 
and  worthy,  he  may,  within  certain  ill-defined  limits,  say 
and  do  what  he  chooses;  so  long  as  we  are  convinced  that 
right  feeling  presides  at  their  sacrifice  our  solicitude  for 
conventions  ceases.  We  do  not  in  this  way  reach  much 
eminence  in  what  is  strictly  defined  as  civility,  but  that  is 
a commonplace  which  does  not  greatly  disturb  us;  we 
readily  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  impeachment;  we  easily 
console  ourselves  with  the  notion  that  we  possess  what  is 
far  more  important  and  perhaps  after  all  inconsistent  with 
that  “ outward  grace  ” which  Mr.  Lowell  assures  us  we 
know  to  be  but  “ dust.”  But  this  attitude  compels  us  to 
be  continually  “ making  allowances  ” for  people  who  are, 
though  kind,  still  uncouth  or  inconsiderate;  and  uncouth- 
ness and  inconsiderateness  are,  however  tolerable,  no- 
where agreeable  qualities  in  a positive  sense.  And  one 
cannot  continually  “ make  allowances  ” or  have  them 


French  Traits 


148 

made  for  him  without  great  detriment  to  his  dignity. 
Consequently  we  do  feel  a vague  discomfort,  which  the 
French  with  their  concentration  on  the  dust  of  outward 
grace  are  spared,  in  a hundred  more  or  less  trifling  details 
of  social  intercourse.  And  occasionally,  when  an  individ- 
ual of  either  of  the  two  great  branches  of  our  race  con- 
templates such  an  individual  of  the  other  as  chance  may 
be  trusted  now  and  then  to  bring  into  contact  with  him — 
in  encounters  of  this  sort  with  which  every  travelled 
American  or  Englishman  is  familiar,  scales  seem  to  fall 
from  his  eyes.  French  manners  appear  transfigured  to 
him.  Mere  “outward  grace”  rises  prodigiously  in  his 
esteem.  Few  cultivated  Englishmen  probably  have  escaped 
a shock  when  subjected  for  the  first  time  to  the  unre- 
strained familiarity  and  the  empty-headed  effusiveness 
characteristic  of  many  of  our  compatriots,  hew  Ameri- 
cans probably  have  not  flushed  with  a sense  of  outrage  at 
the  tactless  incivility  of  the  worthy  but  forbidding  Briton. 
The  American  “ drummer  ” narrating  his  experiences  and 
making  his  “ effect  ” at  a Continental  table  d'hdte,  and  the 
English  lady  opposite  him  visibly  wondering  how  he  can 
eat  butter  with  hot  meats  and  carefully  manifesting  an 
exaggerated  disgust  in  consequence,  tend,  for  example,  to 
excite  in  each  other  a feeling  of  toleration  for  manners  as 
the  French  conceive  them — manners  which  in  seasons  of 
calmer  weather  they  find  excessive. 

Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  erroneous  than  the 
popular  Anglo-Saxon  notion  that  French  manners  are 
excessive.  Like  all  our  notions  about  the  French  this  is 
with  us  an  inheritance.  English  manners  are  in  general 
reserved,  brusque,  embarrassed  perhaps  in  reality,  if  you 
choose  to  examine  into  the  real  nature  of  puerilities,  but 
superficially — that  is  to  say  in  the  sole  sphere  of  their 


Manners 


149 


action — splenetic,  bald,  absurdly  uncivilized  as  mani- 
fested toward  strangers,  and  characterized  in  intimacy 
by  what  Emerson  calls  “ unbuttoned  ease.”  By  force  of 
contrast  French  manners  are  bound  to  appear  excessive  to 
Englishmen.  Positively  speaking,  of  all  possible  qualities 
that  of  excess  is  the  most  foreign  to  French  demeanor  as 
it  is  to  the  French  mind.  The  Italian  manner  is  exces- 
sive, if  you  choose — and  are  ill-natured  enough  to  men- 
tion it.  And  curiously  enough  our  own  and  that  of  the 
English — when  any  value  is  attached  to  it,  when  account 
is  really  taken  of  it,  when  we  wish  to  be  “ especially 
polite,”  as  the  singular  phrase  is — may  certainly  be  thus 
described.  But  French  manners  are  saved  from  excess  by 
the  very  fact  that  they  are  so  thoroughly  conventional. 
Nowhere  is  convention  more  esteemed,  although  nowhere 
are  its  terms  more  elastic.  Nowhere,  as  one  has  occasion 
to  remark  there  at  every  turn,  is  a given  convention  so 
frankly  accepted  as  the  formulated  opinion  of  mankind 
concerning  the  subject  of  it.  To  dispute  it,  to  advance 
individual  notions  in  modification  of  it,  is  clearly  regarded 
as  more  naif  than  even  courageous.  That  “ common 
consent  of  mankind  ” which  certain  moralists  make  the 
arbiter  in  ethics  is  in  France  applied  to  almost  every  con- 
ceivable act  of  man  with  an  elaborateness  and  system  that 
rival  those  of  the  Code  Napoleon  itself.  Nowhere,  per- 
haps, outside  the  precincts  of  the  Court  of  Castile,  is 
etiquette,  that  codified  system  of  manners,  carried  so  far; 
nowThere  is  an  offence  against  it  more  quickly  noticed. 
Violations  of  it  are  readily  excused  if  justifiable;  there  is 
no  pedantry:  there  is  even  a special  interest  exhibited  in 
originalite — a word  which  it  is  significant  that  we  have  to 
render  by  eccentricity.  But  violations  are  invariably 
remarked  and  the  proper  deduction  made  therefrom. 


French  Traits 


!5° 


Nevertheless,  etiquette  itself  being  not  a court  affair 
but  something  thoroughly  understood  and  practised  by 
everybody,  French  manners  are  thereby  saved  from 
excess,  as  they  are  from  every  other  form  of  eccentricity. 
They  strike  one,  rather,  as  being  almost  business-like;  at 
any  rate  their  design  is  clearly  to  remove  friction  as  well 
as  to  decorate  intercourse.  The  “ grimacing  dancing- 
master,”  the  44  bowing  and  scraping  ” simply  do  not 
exist;  not  because  the  French  are  incapable  of  such  insin- 
cere artificiality,  but  because  they  do  not  like  it.  It  does 
not  seem  to  them  a good  thing  in  itself.  The  degree  to 
which  they  have  carried  the  evolution  of  manners  has  left 
it  far  behind.  It  is  an  offence  against  measure  and  it  is 
undemocratic — either  circumstance  being  enough  to  con- 
demn it  in  French  esteem.  In  Peking,  doubtless,  the 
French  manner  would  seem  meagre.  In  Virginia,  44  be- 
fore the  war,”  the  Frenchman  would  certainly  have  found 
much  in  that  courtly  and  elaborate  bearing  of  which  we 
still  read  in  Southern  literature  and  of  which  we  observe 
the  majestic  remains  whenever  a Southern  orator  delivers 
a set  speech,  which  would  have  seemed  to  him  Oriental. 
Indeed,  one  may  remark  in  passing,  Claverhouse  himself 
would  have  been  greatly  surprised  at  the  abundance  of 
manner  in  the  44  descendants  of  the  cavaliers.”  The 
grandiose  is  almost  never  to  be  encountered  in  France — 
except  in  art  or  literature  where  it  is  sought  of  set  pur- 
pose and  expressly,  as  who  should  say  44  let  us  now  intone 
instead  of  simply  speaking.”  On  the  other  hand  the  sin- 
cerely familiar  manner,  that  manner  which  is  the  absolute 
absence  of  manner,  is  quite  as  uncommon.  Drop  into  the 
little  stuffy  hall  in  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines  of  a 
Thursday  evening,  and  listen  to  one  of  M.  Francisque 
Sarcey’s  charming  conferences  on  the  stage,  on  poetry,  on 


Manners 


151 


literature.  M.  Sarcey’s  manner  is  admirably  free  from 
pose  of  any  kind;  it  passes  in  Paris  for  the  manner  suited 
to  a bonhomie  almost,  if  not  quite,  bourgeoise.  It  is  familiar 
in  a sense  unknown  to  our  lyceum;  M.  Sarcey,  who  is  in 
the  first  place  seated,  stops  over  a citation  to  laugh  or 
admire  with  his  auditors:  occasionally  one  of  these  haz- 
ards a suggestion  to  which  the  conferencier  bows  agree- 
ment or  shrugs  dissent;  one  is  almost  en  famille.  But  the 
family  is  clearly  a French  family.  There  is  no  relaxa- 
tion, no  unbending,  no  flaccid  abandon.  Of  familiarity  as 
we  understand  the  term  and  as  we  illustrate  it  on  the  ros- 
trum, as  well  as  in  the  “ back-store,”  there  is  none  at  all. 
Quite  as  watchful  a guard  is  kept  over  the  moral  muscles 
as  if  the  occasion  were  a wholly  different  one.  M.  Sarcey 
and  his  auditors  are  as  much  on  “ dress-parade,”  as  we 
sometimes  say  of  this  attitude,  as  the  soldiers  at  a Long- 
champs  review.  They  have  simply,  morally  speaking, 
learned  so  well  to  use  their  faculties  by  the  habit  which  is 
a second  nature  that  that  first  nature  which  as  Pascal 
observed  is  perhaps  only  a first  habit,  seems  to  them  rudi- 
mentary rather  than  specifically  natural,  as  it  appears  to 
us.  Suppose — if  such  a thing  can  be  supposed — M.  Sarcey 
forming  one  of  the  late  Mr.  Beecher’s  audience  at  Plymouth 
Church  on  a Sunday  morning.  The  time,  the  place,  the 
theme  are  sacred,  but  he  would  be  certain  to  find  a lack 
of  correspondence  between  this  fact  and  the  manners  of 
the  occasion — he  would  be  sure  to  esteem  unfair  any  criti- 
cism of  French  manners  as  excessive  which  should  be 
based  on  the  standard  there  confronting  and  surrounding 
him.  He  would  be  sure,  on  the  other  hand,  to  find  excess 
in  the  occasion’s  absence  of  tenue.  He  would  reflect: 
“ Our  manner  is  business-like  rather  than  Italian;  it  is 
direct  rather  than  rococo.  We  are  familiar,  we  are 


*52 


French  Traits 


free,  we  are  frank,  we  are  gay;  but  we  are  not  gay  like 
that. ' ’ 

Finally,  French  manners  are  gentle.  A certain  mild- 
ness of  demeanor,  which  is,  among  us,  mainly  confined  to 
such  individuals  as  do  not  fear  the  consequences  of  failure 
in  self-assertion,  is  everywhere  observable.  The  fiercely 
mustachioed  concierge  shares  it  with  the  bland  academi- 
cian. It  is  the  rarest  imaginable  chance  to  hear  an  oath. 
There  is  something  feeble  and  inefficient,  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  inarticulateness,  about  the  intenser  sort  of  exple- 
tives, which  are  wholly  foreign  to  the  French  temper, 
accustomed  to  perfect  facility  and  adequacy  of  expression. 
Similarly  with  slang,  French  argot  is  almost  a language 
by  itself.  Slang  as  we  comprehend  the  term,  and  as  Walt 
Whitman  eulogizes  and  employs  it — namely,  as  the  riotous 
medium  of  the  under-languaged,  is  unknown.  One  may 
in  a week  hear  more  oaths  and  more  slang  of  the  coarse 
and  stupid  sort  in  Wall  Street,  at  the  seaside,  in  the  hotel 
corridors  and  street-cars  and  along  the  sidewalks  of  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  say,  and  in  public  generally  among 
us  than  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  France  in  a year. 
There  is  not  the  same  burlesque  of  “ heartiness,”  the 
same  slapping  on  the  back,  the  same  insistent  invitations 
to  drink,  the  same  brutaliit *;  in  fine  there  is  infinitely  more 
gentleness.  Their  occasional  savagery  strikes  us  as  in- 
effective and  amateur,  their  fury  seems  fustian.  The 
“rapier-thrusts”  of  sarcasm,  the  kind  of  writing  and 
talking  to  which  some  of  our  newspapers  apply  their  most 
eulogistic  epithet,  “ scathing,”  the  bitter  banter  to  which 
not  a few  of  the  best  bred  of  our  young  girls  seem  just 
now  especially  addicted  would  excite  amazement  in 
France.  Persiflage , there,  is  never  personal  when  it  is 
not  also  good-natured.  In  any  event  there  is  far  less  of 


Manners 


*53 


it  than  of  compliment;  and  this  compliment  is  less  facti- 
tious than  are  our  personalities  of  the  uncomplimentary 
kind.  The  difference  shows  an  important  temperamental 
distinction  as  well  as  anything  can.  The  French  are  as 
inclined  to  the  amiable,  the  agreeable,  the  social,  the 
impersonal  as  we  are  to  avoid  being  the  dupe  of  these 
qualities;  perhaps  they  are  less  duped  than  we  are,  and  at 
any  rate  the  amount  of  fruitless  friction  which  they  save 
over  us  is  very  great.  Indeed  with  us  this  friction  grows 
by  natural  selection;  it  is  popular  because,  conscious  of 
immense  kindliness  at  bottom  and  our  own  withers  being 
for  the  moment  unwrung,  we  like  to  see  the  galled  jade 
wince.  The  Chamber  of  Deputies  is  sometimes  a bear 
garden,  and  the  air  is  thick  with  denunciation,  but  such  a 
speech  as  Mr.  Blaine’s  famous  characterization  of  Mr. 
Conkling  or  Mr.  Conkling’s  of  Mr.  Curtis  was  never  heard 
there.  In  private  life  there  is  more  refined  malice , more 
gayety,  and  more  gossip — if  possible — in  a Paris  salon 
than  in  a Fifth  Avenue  drawing-room,  or  on  a Newport 
piazza;  but  there  is  nothing  of  what  we  have  come  to 
know  as  personal  “ rallying,”  and  the  gossip  is  about  the 
absent. 

We,  on  the  other  hand,  are  all  familiar,  Mr.  Arnold 
reminds  us,  with  the  notion  of  “ hewing  Agag  in  pieces,” 
and  our  ungentleness  of  manners  proceeds  largely  from 
the  astonishing  way  in  which  this  Teutonic  and  Puritan 
passion  has  penetrated  our  very  nature.  How  English 
literature  witnesses  this  from  the  time  of  Milton  to  the 
very  latest  number  of  “ The  Saturday  Review  ” we  all 
know.  The  greatest  and  kindliest  natures  are  not  exempt 
from  it  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Not  only  does 
Macaulay  riot  in  it,  but  such  a good-natured  soul  as  Mr. 
James  Yellowplush  indulges  in  many  a swing  of  the  axe — 


*54 


French  Traits 


when  Agag  is  for  the  moment  personated  by  Bulwer,  let 
us  say.  Not  only  is  the  hewing  done  with  the  grandiose 
strokes  of  Carlylean  brutality,  but  it  is  amiably  and  dex- 
terously performed  by  the  advocate  par  excellence  of 
“ sweet  reasonableness  ” and  the  chief  critic  of  the  cus- 
tom, Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  himself.  The  description  of 
Mr.  Swinburne  as  “ sitting  in  a sewer  and  adding  to  it,” 
attributed  to  Carlyle,  differs  mainly  by  its  outrageousness 
from  the  implacable  way  in  which  a long  catalogue  of 
saints  and  sinners  is  subjected  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Arnold 
to  an  illumination  as  indiscreet  as  it  is  discriminating. 
There  is  much  discussion  as  to  whether  it  is  as  a critic  or 
a poet  that  he  will  appeal  to  “ the  next  ages,”  but  there 
is  a side  of  his  admirable  and  elevated  genius  in  virtue  of 
which  it  is  not  difficult  occasionally  to  fancy  him  gracing 
the  Pantheon  of  the  future  in  the  harmonious  guise  of 
Apollo  flaying  Marsyas.  No  Anglo-Saxon  would  wish 
Mr.  Arnold  different,  but  it  is  worth  pointing  out  that  the 
respectably  sized  and  felicitously  executed  “ Dunciad  ” 
which  might  be  collected  from  his  works  is  incontestably 
due  to  the  personal  attitude,  the  personal  way  of  looking 
at  many  questions  and  discussing  many  subjects.  His 
gentleness  in  consequence  is  rather  express  than  in- 
grained, and  now  and  then  has  something  feline  in  its 
velvety  caress. 

In  this  country,  I think,  we  are  less  disposed  to  censori- 
ousness. At  any  rate  our  more  refined  spirits  are — from 
the  various  reasons  which  spring  from  the  American  dif- 
ferentiation of  the  race.  We  have  more  room,  and  more 
equality.  Our  manners  are  affected  by  our  greater  amen- 
ity. But  we  do  not  need  the  abundant  testimony  of  the 
daily  journals  to  assure  us  how  thoroughly  personal  is,  in 
general,  our  point  of  view,  how  instinctive  is  our  protest 


Manners 


r55 


against  the  impersonal  and  artistic  way  of  discussing  and 
deciding  any  serious  problem,  how  distrustful  we  are  of 
the  earnestness  of  whatever  bears  no  personal  indorse- 
ment. “ It  makes  a great  difference  to  a sentence,”  says 
Emerson  somewhere,  “ whether  or  no  there  be  a man 
behind  it.”  That  is  our  universal  feeling.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  conceive  the  serene  and  charitable  Emerson  finding 
the  flaying  of  Marsyas  work  so  congenial  as  to  be  worthy 
his  best  and  most  vivacious  effort,  but  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  the  operation  would  awaken  his  interest 
and,  if  neatly  performed,  win  his  approval.  To  the  most 
malicious  Frenchman  on  the  other  hand,  the  flaying  of 
Marsyas  by  Apollo  would  seem  a work  of  supererogation. 
Neither  in  literature  nor  in  life  does  he  practise  it. 
“ That  is  a fine  legend,  a most  significant  myth,”  he 
would  remark  to  us,  “ but  you  materialize  it  atrociously. 
The  only  part  of  it  with  which  we  are  directly  and 
actively  concerned  is  the  contest — that  part  which  Raph- 
ael painted  with  a real  personal  feeling,  as  you  may  see  in 
the  Louvre.  The  consequences  to  incompetence  of  its 
insolence  are,  as  he  has  conventionalized  them  in  the 
Vatican,  natural  and  necessary;  they  follow  without  the 
interposition  of  the  god,  who  was  born  for  higher  things. 
Agag  is  sure  to  be  satisfactorily  hewn  in  pieces,  and  the 
work  is  accomplished  by  the  matter-of-course  operation  of 
impersonal  forces.  Individually  and  socially  we  are  only 
concerned  with  recognizing  Agag  when  we  see  him  and 
with  showing  ourselves  superior  to  him.  He  is  so  little 
liked  among  us,  his  following  is  so  entirely  inconsiderable 
compared  with  that  he  can  boast  among  you  that  his  fate, 
indeed,  is  sealed  from  the  beginning.  To  denounce  him 
would  be  to  utter  platitudes.” 


CHAPTER  VI 


WOMEN 

Writing  over  a hundred  years  ago,  Sebastien  Mercier, 
whose  “ Tableau  de  Paris  ” was  once  a very  popular 
work,  says  of  his  countrywomen:  “ Frenchwomen  are 
remarkable  for  piercing,  mischievous  eyes,  elegant  fig- 
ures, and  sprightly  countenances,  but  fine  heads  are  very 
rare  amongst  them.”  The  type  has  not  varied  greatly 
since  then  and  it  may  be  safely  asserted  that  at  present 
large  eyes  and  beautiful  faces  are  as  rare  among  French- 
women as  are  poor  figures.  They  are  admired,  too,  in 
France  with  an  intensity  not  untinctured  with  envy.  For 
large  eyes  especially  this  admiration  is  universally  unmeas- 
ured— no  woman’s  eyes  seem  too  large  to  be  beautiful; 
from  the  lay-figures  of  fashion-plates  to  the  goddesses  of 
the  Salon , Grevin’s  beauties,  the  wax-figures  of  shop- 
windows — every  ideal  type  whether  vulgar  or  refined  is 
sure  to  possess  large  eyes.  American  girls  have  not  this 
peculiarity,  it  is  well  known,  as  frequently  as  those  of 
several  other  races,  but  in  Paris  they  are  nearly  as  noted 
for  it  as  for  any  other  feature  of  their  pretty  faces.  An 
American  returning  home  after  a long  sojourn  in  France 
is  himself  struck  by  the  number  of  “ox-eyed  Junos”  in 
which  his  country  may  glory  and  which  he  had  not  before 
suspected.  Pretty  faces  are  not,  perhaps,  more  abundant 
in  France  than  large  eyes.  They  are  rarer  among  women 
of  a certain  age  than  among  young  girls — so  much  rarer 


Women 


57 


indeed  than  is  the  case  with  us  that  one  naturally  infers 
the  deteriorating  effect  of  French  life  and  manners  upon 
the  fresher  and  more  delicate  beauties  of  feature  and 
color.  Of  this  Frenchwomen  seem  themselves  convinced, 
and  they  begin  early  the  endeavor  to  circumvent  the 
ungallant  influences  of  passing  years.  It  is  a bold  thing 
to  say,  they  are  themselves  such  excellent  judges  in  these 
matters,  but  it  is  probable  that  in  this  they  commit  a 
grave  error,  and,  by  meeting  them  half-way,  really  aid  in 
the  ungracious  work  of  these  influences.  Balzac  cynically 
divides  Parisians  into  the  two  classes  of  the  young  and 
the  old  who  attempt  to  appear  young.  As  to  women 
alone  he  does  not  seem,  to  a foreign  observer,  very  far 
out  of  the  way.  There  are  doubtless  large  numbers  of 
men  who  do  not  attempt  to  regain  the  youthful  aspect 
they  could  not  retain,  but  almost  no  women. 

It  is  not  by  any  means  exclusively  vanity  that  furnishes 
the  motive  for  this  unequal  struggle  with  nature.  Partly, 
to  be  sure,  it  is  a poignant  repugnance  to  loss  of  consider- 
ation which,  in  a society  where  the  great  prize  of  life  is 
the  esteem  of  others,  is  of  great  importance.  But  in  the 
main  it  proceeds  from  a passionate  desire  to  preserve  even 
the  semblance  of  the  period  when  one  feels  at  one’s  best, 
when  one  can  enjoy  most  thoroughly,  and  when  one 
wastes  one’s  life  the  least.  Some  day  perhaps  gray  hair 
will  become  as  fashionable  in  Paris  as  it  is  in  New  York, 
but  hitherto  there  are  no  signs  of  its  favor.  The  number 
of  women  one  sees  who  have  dyed  hair  is  very  large,  and, 
till  one  remarks  a corresponding  rarity  of  gray  hair,  very 
odd.  At  first  one’s  respect  for  Parisian  taste  receives  a 
severe  shock.  The  dye  used,  however — apparently  the 
same  all  over  Paris — is  far  superior  to  the  hideous  russets 
we  are  accustomed  to  note  in  the  beard  and  hair  of  an 


French  Traits 


!58 

occasional  under-bred  old  man,  and  when  fresh  is,  except 
for  its  evident  artificiality,  a not  at  all  bad  looking  dark- 
chestnut.  After  a few  days  it  becomes  easily  less  beauti- 
ful, and  it  is  certainly  not  renewed  often  enough.  The 
ennui  of  the  process  and  economy,  the  sense  for  both  of 
which  is  quite  as  keen  as  that  of  coquetry  in  France,  are 
against  its  frequent  renewal.  Before  long  one  becomes 
used  to  the  general  phenomenon  and  is  in  two  minds 
about  agreeing  with  the  Parisians  as  to  its  preferability  to 
gray  hair,  which  certainly  does  not  suit  all  complexions 
and  makes  the  person  not  naturally  distinguished  appear 
insignificant;  and  except  in  rare  cases  it  ages  rather  than 
renders  piquant  the  youthfulness  it  sometimes  accompa- 
nies. As  for  the  mauvaise  honte  of  resorting  to  artificial 
aids  to  beauty,  one  inclines  to  get  over  that  in  breathing 
the  Parisian  atmosphere  where  such  a feeling  is  wholly 
unknown  and  would  probably  be  incomprehensible. 
Women  with  us  certainly  resort  to  wigs  in  case  of  bald- 
ness and  to  rice  powder  in  the  event  of  any  grave  defect 
in  complexion.  The  line  between  the  palliation  of  natu- 
ral blemishes  and  the  adornment  of  natural  features  is 
difficult  to  draw.  A society  which  has  a great  deal  of 
regard  for  form  will  insist  on  the  latter,  while  a society 
perpetually  on  its  guard  against  permitting  form  to  out- 
weigh substance  will  hardly  excuse  the  former. 

The  truth  is  that  coquetry,  which  is  a defect  in  our 
eyes,  is  a quality  of  the  Frenchwoman.  It  is  a virtue 
which  consecrates  as  it  were  the  possession  of  natural 
attractions.  In  France  always  le  charme  pritne  la  beauty 
and  coquetry  there  is  the  science  of  charm  in  women. 
Charm  in  this  special  sense  our  women  do  not  greatly 
study;  and  its  crude  exhibitions  oftener  than  not  occur  in 
conjunction  with  an  absence  of  those  natural  attractions 


Women 


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so  much  better  and  so  universally  appreciated  by  the 
opposite  sex  that  there  is  no  atoning  for  the  lack  of  them 
nor  any  need  of  enhancing  them.  But  in  France  to  paint 
the  lily  is  not  regarded  as  a paradox.  The  result  is  not 
without  a certain  specious  felicity,  it  must  be  confessed; 
as  indeed  many  American  men  who  have  been  honored  in 
any  degree  with  French  feminine  society  could  probably 
testify.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that 
from  our  point  of  view  the  French  lily  needs  to  be 
painted.  Fler  natural  charms  are  many  and  great,  and 
they  would  be  potent  even  in  a milieu  which  would  dis- 
tinctly frown  upon  her  mobilization  and  manoeuvring  of 
them,  so  to  speak.  Her  complexion  is,  in  general — before 
it  has  submitted  to  the  inexorable  necessities  arising  from 
competition  with  the  heightened  and  accentuated  tints 
that  best  sustain  the  gaslight  (or  rather  candle-light) 
splendor  of  opera,  balls,  and  soirees — very  nearly  perfec- 
tion. Less  florid  than  the  red  and  white  freshness  so 
greatly  admired  as  witnessing  quite  as  much  as  decorating 
the  superb  health  of  Englishwomen,  it  is  nevertheless  full 
of  color,  readily  changeable,  and  of  a purity  unaffected 
either  by  its  occasional  leaning  toward  olive  or  by  its 
more  frequent  shading  into  pink.  Muddy  or  sallow  it 
never  is.  The  Parisienne  is  perhaps  often  etiole'e — there  is 
much  croaking  in  the  journals  about  the  effect  of  the  vie 
fievreuse  et  excitante  of  Paris;  but  anemia  as  a chronic  con- 
dition is  infrequent.  She  has  a disgust  for  invalidism 
rare  among  American  women,  who  would  find  her  on  this 
score  terribly  unsympathetic — “ cold  and  hard  ” in  fact. 
Unlike  so  many  American  women,  who  esteem  her  blasde 
in  consequence,  elle  n' est  pas  nee  cThier , in  French  phrase, 
and  she  perfectly  appreciates  the  intimate  connection 
between  invalidism  and  hysteria.  To  be  pitied  forms  no 


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part  of  her  programme,  and  to  be  pitied  on  such  grounds 
would  be  unendurable  to  her.  The  “ rest  cure  ” is  prob- 
ably unknown  in  France. 

But  quite  as  much  as  such  commiseration  she  undoubt- 
edly dreads  the  loss  of  physical  attractiveness  which 
invalidism  involves.  She  devotes  indeed  a share  of  atten- 
tion to  the  conservation  of  her  beauty  in  every  respect 
which  the  American  woman  would  esteem  excessive.  Her 
hand,  oftener  expressive  perhaps  than  mignonne , but  in 
general  shapely  and  well-attached,  shows  the  advantages 
of  this  attention.  Her  foot  on  the  other  hand  shows  its 
disadvantages;  it  is  as  a rule  if  larger  than  the  corre- 
sponding American  foot  (which  is  not  to  be  denied) 
smaller  by  a greater  discrepancy  still  than  that  of  the 
Englishwoman,  and  there  seems  really  no  excuse  for  com- 
pressing it,  as  is  so  universally  done,  into  the  fashionable 
but  transparent  deception  known  as  the  Louis  Quinze 
boot.  Under  this  treatment,  little  different  in  kind  from 
that  which  is  de  rigueur  in  China,  it  assumes  an  aspect 
totally  devoid  of  graceful  contour,  to  be  characterized 
only  by  what  Carlyle  would  describe  as  “ mere  hoofiness.  ” 
Still  for  a moment — the  moment  during  which  alone  per- 
haps the  feminine  foot  should  be  remarked — the  effect  is 
possibly  to  diminish  apparent  size;  and  here  again,  as  in 
the  instances  of  paint  and  powder  and  dyes,  one  should 
hesitate  before  proffering  advice  to  so  excellent  a judge 
as  the  Frenchwoman.  The  point  remains,  in  Candide’s 
words,  “ une  grande  question.”  Coquetry  itself,  how- 
ever, can  offer  nothing  to  enhance  what  is  beyond  all 
question  the  Frenchwoman’s  most  admirable  physical 
endowment,  namely  her  incomparable  figure.  E7iibon- 
point,  it  is  true,  is  a danger  to  be  contemplated  as  one 
approaches  middle  age.  Beyond  this  period  of  life  France 


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undoubtedly  possesses  her  full  share  of  ample  and  ma- 
tronly femininity.  The  opposite  tendency  may  safely  be 
scouted;  Madame  Bernhardt  herself  is  well-known  to  be 
what  is  called  a fausse  maigre.  But  in  any  assemblage  of 
Frenchwomen  from  a ball  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  to 
a bal  de  V Opera  the  number  of  admirable  figures  is  very 
striking;  the  face  may  be  positively  common,  but  the  fig- 
ure is  nearly  sure  to  be  superb.  The  wasp-waist  so  much 
affected  across  the  Channel  is  apparently  confined  to 
fashion-plates  designed  for  exportation.  The  unwisdom 
of  tight-lacing  is  evidently  not  more  perfectly  appreciated 
than  its  unsightliness,  though  the  relations  of  hygiene  to 
beauty  are  thoroughly  understood;  it  is  doubtless  often 
resorted  to,  but  mainly  as  a corrective.  With  this  excel- 
lence of  figure  generally  goes  a corresponding  excellence 
of  carriage;  in  this  respect  the  skill  with  which  the  Louis 
Quinze  heel  is  circumvented  is  beyond  praise.  And  with 
regard  to  the  tact  and  taste  displayed  in  the  garb  which 
decorates  this  figure  and  carriage  the  world  is,  I suppose, 
as  well  agreed  now  as  in  the  time  when  the  Empress 
Eugenie  set  its  fashions  for  it  in  a more  inexorable  way 
than  the  women  of  the  present  republic  can  pretend  to. 
France  is  still,  if  not  the  only  country  in  the  world  where 
dress  is  an  art,  at  least  the  only  one  where  the  dressmaker 
and  the  milliner  are  artists. 

It  is  as  unquestionably  the  country  in  which  women 
think  most  of  dress.  The  fact  is  often  enough  made  a 
reproach  to  the  Frenchwoman,  and  nothing  is  commoner 
than  to  hear  Englishmen,  Germans,  Spaniards,  and  Ital- 
ians, as  well  as  Americans,  in  Paris  referring  to  it  as  indi- 
cating her  character  and  defining  the  limit  of  her  activi- 
ties. Her  toilet  occupies  the  Parisienne  too  exclusively, 
is  nearly  the  universal  foreign  opinion — even  among  those 


n 


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French  Traits 


foreigners  who  are  themselves  most  attracted  by  the 
graces  and  felicities  of  the  toilet  in  question  as  well  as 
least  serious  themselves.  The  difficulty  of  transmuting 
such  a trait  into  that  domesticity  which  the  Southern 
Latin  ready  to  se  ranger  prizes  as  highly  as  the  Teuton  or 
Anglo-Saxon  who  makes  it  a part  of  his  feminine  ideal,  is 
a frequent  theme  of  purely  disinterested  speculation 
among  these  social  philosophers.  It  is  a difficulty  never- 
theless which  does  not  puzzle  the  Frenchman.  The  con- 
ditions of  French  life  are  such  that  domesticity  is  either 
not  understood  in  precisely  the  sense  in  which  it  is 
accepted  elsewhere,  or  is  not  given  the  same  overmaster- 
ing importance  as  an  absolute  quality.  The  domesticity 
aimed  at  by  the  Spanish  convent  and  cultivated  by  the 
Germanic  hearth  and  chimney-corner  is  in  no  sense  the 
object  of  the  Frenchman’s  ambition  for  the  Frenchwoman. 
Here  as  elsewhere  his  social  instinct  triumphs  over  every 
other,  and  he  regards  the  family  circle  as  altogether  too 
narrow  a sphere  for  the  activities  of  a being  who  occupies 
so  much  of  his  mind  and  heart,  and  in  whose  considera- 
tion he  is  as  much  concerned  as  she  in  his.  To  be  the 
mother  of  his  children  and  the  nurse  of  his  declining  years 
is  a destiny  which,  unrelieved  by  the  gratification  of  her 
own  instincts  of  expansion,  he  would  as  little  wish  for  her 
as  she  would  for  herself.  To  be  the  ornament  of  a soci- 
ety, to  awake  perpetual  interest,  to  be  perpetually  and 
universally  charming,  to  contribute  powerfully  to  the  gen- 
eral aims  of  her  environment,  never  to  lose  her  character 
as  woman  in  any  of  the  phases  or  functions  of  womanly 
existence,  even  in  wifehood  or  maternity — this  central 
motive  of  the  Frenchwoman’s  existence  is  cordially 
approved  by  the  Frenchman.  In  fact  it  is  because  he 
approves  and  insists  upon  it  that  she  is  what  she  is.  It  is 


Women 


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for  this  reason  that  she  devotes  so  much  attention  to 
dress,  which  in  her  thus,  spite  of  those  surface  indications 
that  mislead  the  foreigner,  is  almost  never  due  to  the  pas- 
sion for  dress  in  itself  to  which  similar  preoccupation 
infallibly  testifies  in  the  women  of  other  societies.  A 
New  York  belle  dresses  for  her  rivals — when  she  does 
not,  like  the  aborigines  of  her  species,  dress  for  herself 
alone.  Mr.  Henry  James  acutely  represents  the  Mrs. 
Westgate  of  his  “ International  Episode  ” as  “ sighing  to 
think  the  Duchess  would  never  know  how  well  she  was 
dressed.”  To  induce  analogous  regret  in  a Frenchwoman 
a corresponding  masculine  obtuseness  would  be  absolutely 
indispensable.  And  this  among  her  own  countrymen  she 
would  never  encounter.  Her  dress,  then,  is  a part  of  her 
coquetry— one  of  the  most  important  weapons  in  a tolera- 
bly well-stocked  arsenal;  but  it  is  nothing  more,  and  it  in 
no  degree  betokens  frivolity.  Like  her  figure  and  her 
carriage  it  is  a continual  ocular  demonstration  and  a 
strong  ally  of  her  instinct,  her  genius,  for  style.  In  these 
three  regards  she  is  unapproachable,  and  in  every  other 
attribute  of  style  she  is  certainly  unsurpassed.  In  ele- 
gance, in  intelligence,  in  self-possession,  in  poise,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  exceptions  in  other  countries  to  rival 
the  average  Parisienne.  And  her  coquetry,  which  endues 
her  style  with  the  element  of  charm  (of  which  it  is,  as  I 
said,  the  science),  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  in- 
stinct to  please  highly  developed.  It  is  not,  as  certainly 
coquetry  elsewhere  may  sometimes  be  called,  the  instinct 
to  please  deeply  perverted.  The  French  coquette  does 
not  flirt.  Her  frivolity,  her  superficiality,  may  be  great 
in  many  directions — in  religion,  in  moral  steadfastness,  in 
renunciation,  in  constancy,  even  in  sensibility — but  in 
coquetry  she  is  never  superficial;  the  dimly  veiled,  half- 


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acknowledged  insincerity  of  what  is  known  as  flirtation 
would  seem  to  her  frivolous  to  a degree  unsuspected  by 
her  American  contemporary.  To  her  as  to  her  country- 
men the  relations  of  men  and  women  are  too  important 
and  too  interesting  not  to  be  at  bottom  entirely  serious. 

In  fine  to  estimate  the  Frenchwoman’s  moral  nature 
with  any  approach  to  adequacy  it  is  necessary  entirely  to 
avoid  viewing  her  from  an  Anglo-Saxon  standpoint. 
Apart  from  her  milieu  she  is  not  to  be  understood  at  all. 
The  ideals  of  woman  in  general  held  by  this  milieu  are 
wholly  different  from  our  ideals.  To  see  how  and  wherein 
let  us  inquire  of  some  frank  French  friend.  “ We  shall 
never  agree  about  women,”  he  will  be  sure  to  admit  at 
the  outset;  and  he  may  be  imagined  to  continue  very 
much  in  this  strain:  44  We  Frenchmen  have  a repugnance, 
both  instinctive  and  explicit,  to  your  propensity  to  make 
companionability  the  essential  quality  of  the  ideal  woman. 
Consciously  or  unconsciously  this  is  precisely  what  you 
do.  It  is  in  virtue  of  their  being  more  companionable, 
and  in  an  essentially  masculine  sense,  that  the  best  of 
your  women,  the  serious  ones,  shine  superior  in  your  eyes 
to  their  frivolous  or  pedantic  rivals.  You  seem  to  us,  in 
fact,  to  approach  far  more  nearly  than  your  English 
cousins  to  the  ideal  in  this  respect  of  your  common 
Gothic  ancestors.  Your  ideal  is  pretty  closely  the  Alruna 
woman — an  august  creature  spiritually  endowed  with 
inflexible  purity  and  lofty,  respect-compelling  virtues, 
performing  the  office  of  a 4 guiding-star  ’ amid  the  per- 
plexities of  life,  whose  approval  or  censure  is  important  in 
a thousand  moral  exigencies,  and  one’s  feeling  for  whom 
is  always  strongly  tinctured — even  in  the  days  of  court- 
ship— with  something  akin  to  filial  feeling.  In  your  daily 
life  this  ideal  becomes,  of  course,  familiarized — you  do 


Women 


165 


not  need  to  be  reminded  that  ‘ familiarized  ’ is,  indeed, 
an  extenuating  term  to  describe  the  effect  upon  many  of 
your  ideals  when  they  are  brought  into  the  atmosphere  of 
your  daily  life,  that  the  contrast  between  American  ideals 
and  American  practice  frequently  strikes  us  as  grotesque. 
In  the  atmosphere  of  your  daily  life  the  Alruna  woman 
becomes  a good  fellow.  She  despises  girls  who  flirt,  as 
you  yourselves  despise  our  dandies  and  our  petits  jeunes 
gens.  She  despises  with  equal  vigor  the  lackadaisical,  the 
hysterical,  the  affected  in  any  way.  She  plays  a good 
game  of  tennis;  it  is  one  of  her  ambitions  to  cast  a fly 
adroitly,  to  handle  an  oar  well.  She  is  by  no  means  a Di 
Vernon.  She  has  a thoroughly  masculine  antipathy  to 
the  romantic,  and  is  embarrassed  in  its  presence.  She 
reads  the  journals;  she  has  opinions,  which,  unlike  her 
inferior  sisters,  she  rarely  obtrudes.  She  is  tremendously 
efficient  and  never  poses.  She  is  saved  from  masculinity 
by  great  tact,  great  delicacy  in  essentials,  by  her  beauty 
which  is  markedly  feminine,  by  her  immensely  narrower 
sphere,  and  by  Divine  Providence.  She  is  thus  thor- 
oughly companionable,  and  she  is  after  all  a woman. 
This  makes  her  immensely  attractive  to  you.  But  noth- 
ing could  be  less  seductive  to  us  than  this  predominance 
of  companionableness  over  the  feminine  element,  the  ele- 
ment of  sex.  Of  our  women,  ideal  and  real  (which  you 
know  in  France,  the  country  of  equality,  of  homogeneity, 
of  averages,  is  nearly  the  same  thing),  we  could  better  say 
that  they  are  thoroughly  feminine  and  that  they  are,  after 
all,  companionable.  Indeed,  if  what  I understand  by 
‘ companionable  ’ be  correct,  i.e.,  rien  que  s'  entendre,  they 
are  quite  as  much  so  as  their  American  sisters,  though  in 
a very  different  way,  it  is  true. 

“ Let  me  explain.  The  strictness  of  your  social  code 


i66 


French  Traits 


effectually  shuts  off  the  American  woman  from  interest  in, 
and  the  American  girl  from  knowledge  of,  what  is  really 
the  essential  part  of  nearly  half  of  life;  I mean  from  any 
mental  occupation  except  in  their  more  superficial  aspects 
with  the  innumerable  phenomena  attending  one  of  the  two 
great  instincts  from  which  modern  science  has  taught  us 
to  derive  all  the  moral  perceptions  and  habits  of  human 
life.  This  is  explainable  no  doubt  by  the  unwritten  but 
puissant  law  which  informs  every  article  of  your  social 
constitution  that  relates  to  women:  namely,  the  law  that 
insures  the  precedence  of  the  young  girl  over  the  married 
woman.  With  you,  indeed,  the  young  girl  has  le  haut  du 
pavt  in  what  seems  to  us  a very  terrible  degree.  Your 
literature,  for  example,  is  held  by  her  in  a bondage  which 
to  us  seems  abject,  and  makes  us  esteem  it  superficial. 

Since  the  author  of  “ Tom  Jones  ” no  one  has  been  per- 
mitted to  depict  a man  as  he  really  is,’  complains  Thack- 
eray. With  you  it  is  even  worse  because  the  young  girl 
exercises  an  even  greater  tyranny  than  in  England.  Noth- 
ing so  forcibly  illustrates  her  position  at  the  head  of  your 
society,  however — not  even  her  overwhelming  predomi- 
nance in  all  your  social  reunions  within  and  without  doors, 
winter  and  summer,  at  luncheons,  dinners,  lawn-parties, 
balls,  receptions,  lectures,  and  church — as  the  circum- 
stance that  you  endeavor  successfully  to  keep  her  a girl 
after  she  has  become  a woman.  You  desire  and  contrive 
that  your  wives  shall  be  virgins  in  word,  thought,  and 
aspiration.  That  this  should  be  the  case  before  marriage 
every  one  comprehends.  That  is  the  end  of  our  endeavor 
equally  with  yours.  In  every  civilized  society  men  wish 
to  be  themselves  the  introducers  and  instructors  of  their 
wives  in  a realm  of  such  real  and  vital  interest  as  that  of 
which  marriage,  everywhere  but  in  your  country,  opens 


Women 


167 


the  door.  But  with  us  the  young  girl  is  constantly  look- 
ing forward  to  becoming,  and  envying  the  condition  of,  a 
woman.  That  is  the  source  of  our  restrictions,  of  our 
conventual  regulations,  which  seem  to  you  so  absurd,  even 
so  dishonoring.  You  are  saved  from  having  such,  how- 
ever, by  the  fact  that  with  you  the  young  girl  is  the 
rounded  and  complete  ideal,  the  type  of  womanhood,  and 
that  it  is  her  condition,  spiritually  speaking,  that  the  wife 
and  even  the  mother  emulate.  And  you  desire  ardently 
that  they  should.  You  do  not  ‘ see  any  necessity,’  as  you 
say  in  your  utilitarian  phraseology,  of  a woman’s  ‘ losing  ’ 
anything  of  the  fresh  and  clear  charm  which  perfumes  the 
existence  of  the  young  girl.  You  have  a short  way  of 
disposing  of  our  notion  that  a woman  is  the  flower  and 
fulfilment  of  that  of  which  the  young  girl  is  the  bud  and 
the  promise.  You  esteem  this  notion  a piece  of  sophistry 
designed  to  conceal  our  really  immoral  desire  to  rob  our 
women  of  the  innocence  and  naivete  which  we  insist  upon 
in  the  young  girl,  in  order  that  our  social  life  may  be  more 
highly  spiced.  Your  view  is  wholly  different  from  that  of 
your  race  at  the  epoch  of  its  most  considerable  achieve- 
ments in  the  ‘ criticism  of  life  ’ and  antecedent  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  invention  of  prudery  as  a bulwark  of  virtue. 
It  is  a view  which  seems  to  spring  directly  from  the  Puri- 
tan system  of  each  individual  managing  independently  his 
own  spiritual  affairs  without  any  of  the  reciprocal  aids  and 
the  division  of  labor  provided  for  in  the  more  elaborate 
scheme  of  Catholicism,  in  consequence  of  which  each  indi- 
vidual left  in  this  way  wholly  to  himself  is  forced  into  a 
timid  and  distrustful  attitude  toward  temptation.  Noth- 
ing is  more  noticeable  in  your  women,  thus,  than  a certain 
suspicious  and  timorous  exclusion  from  the  field  of  con- 
templation of  anything  unsuited  to  the  attention  of  the 


i68 


French  Traits 


young  girl.  It  is  as  if  they  feared  contamination  for 
virtue  if  the  attitude  and  habit  of  mind  belonging  to 
innocence  were  once  abandoned.  They  probably  do  fear 
vaguely  that  you  fear  it  for  them,  that  your  feminine  ideal 
excludes  it. 

“ Now,  it  is  very  evident  that  however  admirable  in  its 
results  this  position  may  be,  and  however  sound  in  itself, 
it  involves  an  important  limitation  of  that  very  compan- 
ionableness which  you  so  much  insist  on  in  your  women. 
In  this  sense,  the  average  Frenchwoman  is  an  equal,  a 
companion,  to  a degree  almost  never  witnessed  with  you. 
After  an  hour  of  feminine  society  we  do  not  repair  to  the 
club  for  a relaxation  of  mind  and  spirit,  for  a respiration 
of  expansion,  and  to  find  in  unrestrained  freedom  an 
enjoyment  that  has  the  additional  sense  of  being  a relief. 
Our  clubs  are  in  fact  mere  excuses  for  gambling,  not 
refuges  for  bored  husbands  and  homeless  bachelors.  Con- 
versation among  men  is  perhaps  grosser  in  quality,  the 
equivoque  is  perhaps  not  so  delicate,  so  spirituelle , but  they 
do  not  differ  in  kind  from  the  conversational  tissue  in 
mixed  company,  as  with  you  they  do  so  widely.  With 
you  this  difference  in  kind  is  notoriously  an  abyss.  In 
virtue  of  our  invention  of  treating  delicate  topics  with 
innuendo,  our  mixed  society  gains  immensely  in  interest 
and  attractiveness,  and  our  women  are  more  intimately 
companionable  than  yours.  You  Americans  take  easily  to 
innuendo  from  your  habit  of  mind,  which  is  sensitive  and 
subtile.  You  are  unaccountably  unlike  the  English  in  this 
respect.  As  a rule,  one  of  you  who  should  know  French 
and  understand  French  character  as  well  as  Thackeray, 
would  not  like  him  be  depressed  by  what  he  was  pleased 
to  call  ‘all  that  dreary  double  entendre . ’ Still,  when  you 
attempt  the  application  of  it  to  delicate  topics,  I can 


Women 


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myself  recall  instances  of  your  leaving,  as  we  say,  some- 
thing to  be  desired.  In  such  an  instance  it  is  natural  that 
a feeling  of  ill-success  should  produce  a conviction  that 
the  topic  is  too  delicate  to  be  handled  at  all;  seeing 
another  person  handle  it  with  triumphant  gingerliness 
does  not  unsettle  such  a conviction — the  ‘ double  entendre  * 
becomes  irretrievably  ‘dreary.’  But,  in  point  of  fact,  it 
is  only  a contrivance  of  ours  to  extend  the  range  of  con- 
versation in  mixed  company;  you  can  do  without  it 
because  you  limit  any  conversation  with  a wide  range  to 
one  sex,  to  your  clubs  and  business  offices — where,  appar- 
ently, it  is  not  needed.  It  seems  to  many  of  you,  doubt- 
less, a device  for  confining  the  talk  in  mixed  company  to 
what  are  called  delicate  topics.  But  that  side  of  our  talk 
really  appears  magnified  to  you  because  of  its  absolute 
novelty.  In  strictness  there  is  in  mixed  company  quite  as 
much  conversation  upon  politics,  letters,  art,  and  affairs 
in  Paris  as  even  in  Boston.  Our  equivoque  simply  takes 
the  place  of  your  silences.  The  point  is  that  from  the 
circumstance  that  we  do  not  exclude  it,  the  conversa- 
tional tissue  in  mixed  company  is  with  us  immensely 
varied,  and  that  when  a Frenchman  finds  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a woman — in  ‘ ladies’  society  ’ as  you  express 
it — whether  cl  deux  or  in  a general  gathering,  he  experi- 
ences no  more  restraint — except  that  which  polishes  his 
periods  and  refines  his  expression— than  an  American  does 
at  his  club  or  office.  His  ‘ instinct  for  expansion  ’ suffers 
no  repression.  Society  becomes  a very  different  thing 
from  ‘ ladies’  society.’  It  is  not  a medium  for  the  ex- 
ploitation of  the  young  girl  and  the  woman  who  emulates 
and  follows  her  hand  passibus  cequis ; nor  is  it  a realm 
‘ presided  over  ’ by  ‘ the  fair  sex;’  it  is  an  association  of 
men  and  women  for  the  interchange  of  ideas  on  all  topics, 


French  Traits 


170 


and  the  texture  out  of  which  the  drama  of  life  is  woven. 
In  saying  that  your  ideal  of  companionableness  in  woman 
was  defective  this  was  what  I had  in  mind.  Even  in  com- 
panionableness we  find  our  women  much  more  to  our  mind. 

“ But  this  is,  after  all,  a detail.  Even  if  your  women 
were  intimately  companionable  they  would  none  the  less 
radically  differ  from  our  own;  we  should  still  reproach 
them  with  a certain  masculine  quality  in  the  elevated,  and 
a certain  prosaic  note  in  the  familiar,  types.  By  mascu- 
line, I certainly  do  not  here  intend  the  signification  you 
give  to  your  derisive  epithet  ' strong-minded.’  In  affirm- 
ing that  there  is  a generous  ampleness  in  the  feminine 
quality  of  our  women  unobservable  in  yours,  I do  not 
mean  to  charge  them  with  inferiority  in  what  you  call 
‘ pure  mentality;’  in  intelligence  and  capacities  we  believe 
them  unequalled  the  world  over.  But  they  are  essentially 
less  masculine  in  avoiding  strictly  all  competition  with 
men,  in  conserving  all  their  individuality  of  sex  and  fol- 
lowing their  own  bent.  Nothing  is  more  common  than  to 
hear  American  women  lament  their  lack  of  opportunity, 
envy  the  opportunity  of  men.  Nothing  is  rarer  with  us. 
It  never  occurs  to  a Frenchwoman  to  regret  her  sex.  It 
is  probable  that  almost  every  American  woman  with  any 
pretensions  to  4 pure  mentality,’  feels,  on  the  contrary, 
that  her  sex  is  a limitation  and  wishes,  with  that  varying 
ardor  and  intermittent  energy  which  characterize  her,  that 
she  were  a man  and  had  a man’s  opportunity.  In  a thou- 
sand ways  she  is  the  man’s  rival,  which  with  us  she  never 
is.  Hence  the  popularity  with  you  of  the  agitation  for 
woman-suffrage,  practically  unknown  in  France.  Your 
society  probably  wholly  undervalues  this  movement,  and 
frowns  upon  it  with  a forcible  feebleness  that  is  often 
ludicrously  unjust.  You  do  not  perceive  that  it  furnishes 


Women 


171 


almost  the  only  outlet  for  the  ambition  and  the  energy  of 
such  of  your  women  as  are  persistently  and  not  spasmodi- 
cally energetic  and  ambitious,  and  that  its  worst  foe  with 
you  is  the  great  mass  of  women  themselves,  which  is  gov- 
erned by  timorousness,  by  intellectual  indolence,  and  by 
the  habit  born  of  long-continued  subordination  in  all  seri- 
ous matters.  To  a disinterested  observer  of  the  compla- 
cence with  which  your  society  contemplates  ‘ Folly  set  in 
place  exalted,’  in  this  matter,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
remark  the  secret  sympathy  with  the  movement  enter- 
tained by  serious  women  and  concealed  in  deference  to 
the  opinion  of  the  mass,  whose  fiat  in  all  matters  related 
to  ‘ good  taste  ’ is  necessarily  final.  They  probably  fear 
that  the  mass  of  their  countrywomen,  spite  of  the  indefi- 
nite multiplication  of  female  colleges,  will  never  become 
really  and  responsibly  intelligent  without  the  suffrage; 
and  in  effect  with  you  this  must  become  the  great  prac- 
tical argument  for  it.  Animated  as  the  most  serious  of 
American  women  unquestionably  are  by  a sense  of  rivalry 
with  men,  they  instinctively  feel  this  handicap,  and  in- 
stinctively desire  for  their  sex  the  dignity  and  seriousness 
conferred  by  power  and  the  sense  of  responsibility  power 
involves.  But  I wish  I could  make  plain  to  you  how  dif- 
ferently the  Frenchwoman  feels,  how  radically  different 
the  Frenchwoman  is.  Being  in  no  sense,  and  never  feel- 
ing herself  to  be  the  rival  of  man  and  the  emulator  of  his 
opportunities,  to  her  seriousness  and  dignity  the  suffrage 
could  add  nothing  whatever.  Her  power  and  responsi- 
bility lie  in  quite  another  direction,  and  that  they  do  is 
quite  clear  to  her.  It  has  in  fact  been  so  clear  to  her  in 
the  past,  that  we  have  hitherto  made  the  mistake  of 
giving  her  in  general  an  extremely  superficial  education. 
Madame  Dubarry  got  along  very  well  without  any  at  all. 


TJ2 


French  Traits 


This  is  an  error  we  are  just  now  systematically  repairing. 
And  we  have  our  croakers  who  oppose  the  reform,  entitle 
their  gloomy  vaticinations  ‘ Plus  de  femmes,’  and  predict 
that  our  women  will  become  Americanized.  They  are 
needlessly  alarmed;  for  this  Americanization  involves  the 
quality  of  masculinity  which  does  not  exist  at  all,  either 
in  the  nature  or  in  the  ideal  of  our  women.  It  is  neither 
their  disposition  nor  their  aspiration  to  enter  that  condi- 
tion of  friendly  rivalry  with  men,  to  become  members  of 
that  ‘ mutual  protective  association,’  which  plays  so  large 
a part  in  the  existence  and  imagination  of  your  more  seri- 
ous women. 

“ The  difference  is  nowhere  so  luminously  illustrated  as 
in  the  respective  attitudes  of  French  and  American  women 
toward  the  institution  of  marriage.  With  us  from  the 
hour  when  she  begins  first  to  think  at  all  of  her  future — 
an  epoch  which  arrives  probably  much  earlier  than  with 
you — marriage  is  the  end  and  aim  of  a woman’s  existence. 
And  it  is  so  consciously  and  deliberately.  A large  part  of 
her  conduct  is  influenced  by  this  particular  prospect.  It 
is  the  conscious  and  deliberate  aim  also  of  her  parents  or 
guardians  for  her.  They  constantly  remind  her  of  it. 
Failure  to  attain  it  is  considered  by  her  and  by  them  as 
the  one  great  failure,  to  avoid  which  every  effort  should 
tend,  every  aspiration  be  directed.  In  its  excess  this 
becomes  either  ludicrous  or  repulsive  as  one  looks  at  it. 
4 Si  tu  veux  te  marier,  ne  fais  jamais  9a  ’ — 4 Cela  t’empe- 
chera  de  te  marier  ’ — who  has  not  been  fatigued  with  such 
maternal  admonitions  which  resound  in  interiors  by  no 
means  always  of  the  Basse  c/assc?  But  the  result  is  that 
marriage  occupies  a share  of  the  young  girl’s  mind  and 
meditation  which  to  your  young  girls  would  undoubtedly 
seem  disproportionate,  and  indeed  involve  a sense  of 


Women 


173 


shame.  There  is  no  more  provision  in  the  French  social 
constitution  than  in  the  order  of  nature  itself  for  the  old 
maid.  Her  fate  is  eternal  eccentricity,  and  is  correspond- 
ingly dreaded  among  us  who  dread  nothing  more  than 
exclusion  from  the  sympathies  of  society  and  a share  in  its 
organized  activities.  Marriage  once  attained,  the  young 
girl,  though  become  by  it  a woman,  is  not  of  course  essen- 
tially changed  but  only  more  highly  organized  in  her  origi- 
nal direction.  You  may  be  surprised  to  hear  that  some- 
times it  suffices  her — as  it  suffices  English,  and  used  to 
American  women;  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  our 
society  does  not  make  of  even  marriage  an  excuse  for 
exacting  the  sum  of  a woman’s  activities  which  it  is  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tendency  to  do,  and  that  thus  her  merit  is 
less  conspicuous.  If  marriage  do  not  suffice  her,  it  is  not 
in  ‘ Sorosis  ’ or  Dorcas  or  Browning  societies,  or  art  or 
books  that  she  seeks  distraction,  but  in  the  consolation 
strictly  cognate  to  that  of  marriage  which  society  offers 
her.  Accordingly,  whatever  goes  to  make  up  the  distinct- 
ively feminine  side  of  woman’s  nature  tends  with  us  to 
become  highly  developed.  It  acquires  a refinement,  a 
subtlety,  of  organization  quite  unknown  to  societies  whose 
ideal  women  inspire  filial  feeling.  We  have  as  a rule  very 
few  Cornelias.  Our  mothers  themselves  are  far  from 
being  Spartan.  The  Gothic  goddess  is  practically  un- 
known in  France.  ‘ Woman’s  sphere,’  as  you  call  it,  is 
totally  distinct  from  man’s.  The  action  and  reaction  of 
the  two  which  produce  the  occupation,  the  amusement,  the 
life  of  society  are  far  more  intimate  than  with  you,  but 
they  are  the  exact  reverse  of  homogeneous. 

“ It  is  an  inevitable  corollary  from  this  that  that  senti- 
mental side  which  you  seem  to  us  to  be  endeavoring  to 
subordinate  in  your  more  serious  women,  receives  in  the 


174 


French  Traits 


Frenchwoman  that  greatest  of  all  benefits,  a harmonious 
and  natural  development.  Before  and  after  marriage,  and 
however  marriage  may  turn  for  her,  it  is  her  disposition  to 
love  and  her  capacity  for  loving  which  are  stimulated  con- 
stantly by  her  surroundings,  and  which  are  really  the 
measure  of  the  esteem  in  which  she  is  held.  To  love 
intensely  and  passionately  is  her  ideal.  It  is  so  much  her 
ideal  that  if  marriage  does  not  enable  her  to  attain  it,  it  is 
a virtue  rather  than  a demerit  in  her  eyes  to  seek  it  else- 
where. Not  to  die  before  having  attained  in  its  fulness 
this  end  of  the  law  of  her  being  is  often  the  source  of  the 
Frenchwoman’s  tragic  disasters.  But  even  when  indubi- 
table disaster  arrives  to  her  it  is  at  least  tragic,  and  a trag- 
edy of  this  kind  is  in  itself  glorious.  To  remain  spiritually 
an  etre  incomplet  is  to  her  nearly  as  dreadful  a fate  as  to 
become  a monstrosity.  Both  are  equally  hostile  to  nature 
and  we  have  a national  passion  for  being  in  harmony  with 
nature.  It  is  probably  impossible  to  make  you  compre- 
hend how  far  this  is  carried  by  us.  Take  the  life  of 
George  Sand  as  an  instance.  It  was  incontestably  the 
inspiration  of  her  works,  and  to  us  it  is  the  reverse  of 
reprehensible,  ‘ for  she  loved  much;’  it  is  not  her  elope- 
ment with  Musset  but  her  desertion  of  him  that  indicates 
to  our  mind  her  weak  side.  In  this  way  the  attitude  of 
the  Frenchwoman  toward  love  is  one  of  perfect  frankness. 
So  far  from  dissembling  its  nature — either  transcendent- 
ally  or  pietistically,  after  the  fashion  of  your  maidens,  or 
mystically,  after  the  fashion  in  the  pays  de  Gretchen — she 
appreciates  it  directly  and  simply  as  a passion,  and  for  her 
the  most  potent  of  the  passions,  the  passion  whose  praise 
has  been  the  burden  of  all  the  poets  since  the  morning 
stars  first  sang  together,  and  whose  possession  shares 
equally  with  the  possession  of  superior  intelligence  the 


Women 


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honor  of  distinguishing  man  from  the  lower  animals. 
This  is  why  to  our  women,  as  much  as  to  our  men,  your 
literature,  your  ‘ criticism  of  life,’  seems  pale,  as  we  say — 
pale  and  superficial.  This  is  why  we  had  such  an  engoue- 
ment  for  your  Byron  and  never  heard  of  your  Wordsworth. 
This  is  why  we  occupy  ourselves  so  much  with  cognate 
subjects  as  you  will  have  remarked. 

“ And  the  sentimental  side,  being  thus  naturally  and 
harmoniously  developed,  becomes  thus  naturally  and 
spontaneously  the  instrument  of  woman’s  power  and  the 
source  of  her  dignity.  Through  it  she  seeks  her  triumphs 
and  attains  her  ends.  To  it  is  due  not  her  influence  over 
men — as  with  your  inveterate  habit  of  either  divorcing  the 
sexes  into  a friendly  rivalry  or  associating  them  upon  the 
old-fashioned,  English,  harem-like  basis,  you  would  inevi- 
tably express  it — but  her  influence  upon  society.  This 
results  in  a great  gain  to  women  themselves — increases 
indefinitely  their  dignity  and  power.  It  is  axiomatic  that 
anything  inevitable  and  not  in  itself  an  evil  it  is  far  better 
to  utilize  than  to  resist.  Every  one  acknowledges  the  emi- 
nence of  the  sentimental  side  in  woman’s  nature,  the  great 
part  which  it  plays  in  her  conduct,  the  great  influence  it 
has  upon  her  motives.  And  since  it  has,  therefore,  inevi- 
tably to  be  reckoned  with,  its  development  accomplishes 
for  women  results  which  could  not  be  hoped  for  if  senti- 
ment were  merely  treated  as  an  inevitable  handicap  to  be 
modified  and  mitigated.  Your  own  logic  seems  to  us 
exceedingly  singular.  You  argue  that  men  and  women 
should  be  equal,  that  the  present  regrettable  inequality 
with  you  is  due  to  the  greater  influence  of  sentiment  on 
women’s  minds  in  viewing  purely  intellectual  matters  (you 
are  constantly  throwing  this  up  to  your  woman  suffra- 
gists), and  that  therefore  the  way  in  which  women  are  to 


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be  improved  and  elevated  (as  you  curiously  express  it)  is 
clearly  by  the  repression  of  their  sentiment.  It  is  the  old 
story:  you  are  constantly  teaching  your  women  to  envy 
the  opportunities  of  men,  to  regret  their  ‘ inferiority  ’ 
hitherto,  and  to  endeavor  to  emulate  masculine  virtues  by 
mastering  their  emotions  and  suppressing  their  sentiment; 
that  is  to  say,  you  are  constantly  doing  this  by  indirection 
and  unconsciously,  at  least,  and  by  betraying  the  fact  that 
such  is  your  ideal  for  them.  You  never  seem  to  think 
they  can  be  treated  as  a fundamentally  different  order  of 
capacity  and  disposition.  I remember  listening  for  two 
hours  to  one  of  your  cleverest  women  lecturing  on  Joan 
of  Arc,  and  the  thesis  of  her  lecture  was  that  there  was  no 
mystery  at  all  about  the  Maid  and  her  accomplishments, 
except  the  eternal  mystery  of  transcendent  military  genius, 
that  she  was  in  fact  a female  Napoleon  and  that  it  was  the 
‘ accident  of  sex  ’ simply  that  had  prevented  her  from 
being  so  esteemed  by  the  purblind  masculine  prejudice 
which  had  theretofore  dominated  people’s  minds.  Think- 
ing of  what  Jeanne  d’Arc  stands  for  to  us  Frenchmen,  of 
her  place  in  our  imaginations,  of  the  way  in  which  she 
illustrates  for  us  the  puissance  of  the  essentially  feminine 
element  in  humanity,  I said  to  myself,  ‘ No,  the  Americans 
and  we  will  never  agree  about  women.’ 

The  Frenchman  is  apt  to  become  eloquent  in  allusions 
to  Joan  of  Arc,  and  French  eloquence,  like  any  other,  is 
sometimes  misleading.  One  may  be  permitted  to  object 
to  our  French  friend’s  implication  here,  that  the  resem- 
blance between  Joan  of  Arc  however  conceived  and  the 
average  Parisienne  is  at  least  not  a superficial  one.  At 
the  same  time,  making  every  allowance  for  the  difference 
between  things  “ as  they  really  are  ” and  as  they  seem  to 


Women 


177 


the  persons  irreparably  committed  to  support  of  them,  it 
is  undoubtedly  true  that  if  not  love  at  least  interest  in  the 
other  sex  plays  a considerably  larger  part  in  the  life  of 
the  French  than  in  that  of  the  American  woman.  It  is 
certain  that  she  never,  as  so  frequently  happens  with  us, 
considers  herself  independently,  that  she  has  no  occupa- 
tions or  projects  from  which  men  are  excluded,  that  she 
never  contemplates  a single  life,  for  example,  except  as 
a fate  hardly  to  be  borne  with  philosophy  and  likely  to 
prove  too  much  for  her  sagesse.  Society  makes  no  pro- 
vision for  the  vieille  file , in  the  first  place;  in  the  second, 
society  occupies  almost  the  whole  of  life,  absorbs  almost 
every  effort — two  enormous  differences  from  ourselves. 
The  attractiveness  of  the  spinster  with  us  and  the  position 
she  occupies  in  our  society  are  well-known.  Of  how  many 
“ homes  ” is  she  not  the  delight,  of  how  many  “ firesides  ” 
is  she  not  the  decorously  decorative  adornment!  She  may 
or  may  not  have  had  her  romance;  she  may,  that  is  to 
say,  have  courted  or  have  drifted  into  her  position  of  dig- 
nified singleness;  it  is  in  either  case  equally  sure  that  she 
has  not  considered  her  estate  so  “ incomplete  ” in  itself, 
or  so  disengaged  from  the  structure  of  society,  as  to  fur- 
nish in  itself  reason  and  motive  of  exchange  for  another 
distinguished  quite  as  much  by  another  kind  of  duties  as 
by  another  order  of  opportunities.  And  not  only  is  the 
Frenchwoman  prevented  from  taking  such  a view  as  this 
by  the  society  which  surrounds  her  and  of  which  it  is  a 
prime  necessity  of  her  nature  that  she  should  form  an 
integral  part,  but  she  is  constitutionally  incapable  of  con- 
tentedly fulfilling  such  a destiny.  All  her  instincts  of 
expansion — and  she  possesses  these  in  greater  intensity 
than  we  are  apt  to  fancy  is  natural  to  women — are  hostile 
to  it.  The  genius  for  renunciation  so  conspicuous  in  many 


French  Traits 


178 


of  our  New  England  women  is,  in  her  composition,  quite 
lacking.  Such  concentration  as  she  possesses  is,  to  speak 
paradoxically,  expended  upon  the  exploitation  of  her 
expansiveness.  If  by  chance  she  becomes  vieille  fille  she 
has  a clear  sense  of  failure.  This  certainly  happens,  com- 
paratively rare  as  it  seems  to  us.  And  the  French  spin- 
ster is  apt  to  be  an  enjoyable  person — as  for  that  matter 
who  in  France  is  not?  But  it  cannot  have  failed  to  strike 
any  Anglo-Saxon  observer  that  she  is  a wholly  different 
kind  of  a person  from  her  Anglo-Saxon  analogue.  Almost 
invariably  she  is  either  divote  or  gauloise.  Most  people’s 
experience  probably  is  that  she  is  generally  gauloise,  and 
one  may  even  be  permitted  to  note  that  in  that  event  she 
is  apt  to  be  exaggeratedly  gautoise.  Prudishness  is  hardly 
ever  exhibited  by  her  except  in  conjunction  with  religious 
devotion.  The  devotes  apart,  almost  every  vieille  fille  after 
a certain  age  is  reached — the  age  when  marriage  is  no 
longer  to  be  contemplated — feeling  the  formal  eccentricity 
of  her  position  in  society,  makes  a distinct  break  with  her 
role  of  jeune  fille , and  tacitly  suffers  her  already  cynically 
disposed  milieu  to  infer  that  she  does  not  really  merit  the 
ridicule  she  would  inevitably  receive  upon  the  supposition 
of  her  total  unfamiliarity,  even  by  reputation,  with  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

Single  women,  however,  are,  after  all,  exceptions  in 
France,  and  it  is  only  the  great  contrast  which  France 
presents  in  this  respect  to  those  portions  of  America  which 
are  socially  most  highly  developed  that  makes  a consider- 
ation of  the  character  and  position  of  the  vieille  fille  inter- 
esting or  significant.  Its  significance  really  consists  in 
what  it  suggests  and  implies  as  to  the  fundamental  differ- 
ences which  separate  French  and  Anglo-Saxon  societies. 
Married  women,  of  course,  constitute  the  great  bulk  of 


IV oinen 


179 


the  feminine  portion  of  French  society.  But  when  it  is 
remembered  that  the  interest  in  the  other  sex  just  referred 
to  is  as  characteristic  of  them  as  of  their  unmarried  sis- 
ters, it  will  be  immediately  perceived  that  French  society 
contrasts  positively  as  well  as  negatively  with  our  own. 
With  us,  it  is  well  known,  feminine  interest  in  the  other 
sex  ceases  at  marriage.  It  is  frequently  active  enough 
before  that  event,  but  its  cessation  with  the  wedding  cere- 
mony is  nearly  universal.  To  many  men  this  change 
comes  with  a suddenness  that  is  appalling.  Each  season 
witnesses  shoals  of  our  society  beaux  left  stranded  by  it. 
They  seem  never  to  be  able  to  prepare  for  it  in  advance, 
inevitable  as  they  must  know  it  to  be;  to  them  the  disap- 
pearance from  the  social  circle  (the  arena,  it  might  be 
called)  of  a young  girl  who  seems  to  have  made  her  selec- 
tion and  thenceforward  to  forget  that  there  was  ever  any 
competition,  comes  always  with  the  force  of  a shock. 
Furthermore  with  us  feminine  interest  in  men  ceases  at 
marriage  as  absolutely,  with  as  complete  remorselessness, 
when  the  marriage  is  of  the  former  beau  as  when  it  is  of 
the  former  belle.  To  this  our  young  men  will  probably 
never  be  able  to  habituate  themselves  with  philosophy. 
However  it  may  be  with  American  women,  American  men 
are  very  much  like  other  men,  like  Frenchmen  even  in 
some  respects,  and  the  average  “ society  man’s  ” sense  of 
sudden  loss,  of  a support  withdrawn,  an  activity  paralyzed, 
immediately  consequent  upon  his  marriage  must  be  of  a 
nature  calculated  to  effect,  in  the  long  run,  substantial 
changes  in  the  existing  social  constitution.  To  many 
young  men  with  us  marriage  involves  not  perhaps  a loss 
of  caste,  but  indubitably  a loss  of  that  constant  considera- 
tion, direct  and  indirect,  which  makes  the  possession  of 
caste  desirable;  and  this  circumstance  is  perhaps  the  most 


8o 


French  Traits 


serious  menace  by  which  the  view  of  society  as  a device 
for  bringing  marriageable  young  people  together  is  at 
present  threatened.  Our  young  men  have  nothing  ap- 
proaching the  genius  for  renunciation  of  our  young 
women,  and  though  they  may  long  tolerate  the  retirement 
at  marriage  of  women  from  society — being  largely  recon- 
ciled thereto  by  the  thought  of  thus  attaining  superior 
domesticity  in  their  own  wives — to  continue  to  submit 
throughout  the  course  of  our  social  evolution  to  instant 
personal  effacement  at  marriage,  to  drop  at  once  in  uni- 
versal feminine  consideration  from  the  position  of  Adonis 
to  that  of  Vulcan,  would  undoubtedly  be  too  much  to 
expect  of  them. 

In  neither  of  these  ways,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  does 
marriage  affect  French  society.  Marriage  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  cardinal  condition  of  society  in  France.  It 
might  almost  be  called  the  young  girl’s  “ coming-out 
party.”  It  is,  if  anything,  to  a woman’s  sense  an  added 
attraction  in  a man;  he  is  rang £ certainly,  but  certainly 
none  the  less  a man,  association  with  whom  is,  cateris 
paribus,  as  much  more  agreeable  than  association  with  a 
woman  as  the  elective  affinity  of  nature  has  contrived  it. 
Women’s  general  interest  in  men,  that  is  to  say,  is  so  far 
from  being  repressed  or  even  restricted  by  marriage  that 
it  is  quickened  by  it,  and  thus  society  in  general  receives 
the  stimulus  of  a powerful  force  which  with  us  is  well 
known  to  be  almost  altogether  lacking.  The  entire  French 
conception  of  marriage  differs  so  fundamentally  from  our 
own  that  it  is  really  difficult  for  us  to  appreciate  it.  Prob- 
ably most  Americans  who  have  been  attracted  toward 
the  French  have,  at  some  period  of  their  study  of  French 
manners,  said  to  themselves:  “ There  must  be  some  error 
in  our  understanding  of  French  marriages.  According  to 


Women 


181 


all  accounts  they  are  invariably  and  exclusively  de  conve- 
nance.  They  must  therefore  be  loveless  marriages.  No 
healthful  social  life  such  as  must  exist  in  France  can  be 
based  upon  strict  conformity  to  such  a system.  It  must 
be,  therefore,  that  the  accounts  exaggerate.  In  this 
detail,  as  in  others,  we  must  have  been  misled  by  English 
prejudices.”  But  the  fact  is  literally  as  it  is  understood 
to  be.  Exceptions  to  the  rule  of  manages  de  convenance 
are  so  rare  as  really  not  to  count  at  all.  To  comprehend, 
however,  that  this  does  not  inevitably  lead  to  social  stop- 
page and  disaster,  it  is  necessary  to  perceive  that  the  same 
thing  which  might  result  very  badly  for  us  does  not  neces- 
sarily result  badly  for  people  who  are  so  very  different  from 
us  as  the  French  are.  And  this  is  an  extremely  difficult 
matter;  it  is  always  difficult  to  realize  that  maxims  which 
we  have  conquered  for  ourselves  have  not  a universal 
validity.  The  conception  of  manage  de  convenance  by  no 
means  excludes  the  idea  of  love.  Neither  does  the  prac- 
tice. No  young  girl  in  France  looks  forward  to  not  loving 
her  husband.  She  simply  expects  to  learn  to  love  him 
after  marriage  as  our  young  girls  are  expected  to  do  be- 
fore as  well.  As  a matter  of  fact,  in  the  vast  majority  of 
cases  this  expectation  is  justified.  Parents  and  society 
see  to  it  that  it  shall  be  justifiable,  and  the  result — always 
of  course  a lottery — is  made  dependent  on  old  heads 
instead  of  on  young  hearts.  To  our  criticism  of  the  work- 
ing of  their  system,  the  French  retort  in  kind  with  uncon- 
vinced obstinacy.  They  assert  that  certain  lamentable 
and  undeniable  phenomena  are  direct  results  of  our  system 
and  observe,  truly  enough,  that  from  these  at  least  theirs 
is  free.  To  our  rejoinder  that  this  may  be  so,  but  that 
their  conception  of  marriage,  however  salutary,  is  terribly 
unromantic,  their  answer  would  undoubtedly  be  that  we 


182 


French  Traits 


are  altogether  too  romantic.  And  this  is  really  our  differ- 
ence from  the  French  in  this  matter — that  we  conceive 
marriage  sentimentally,  namely,  and  they  as  an  affair  of 
reason;  and  from  reason  to  convenance  is  always  an  incred- 
ibly short  step  in  France.  Individualism  is  a force  so 
nearly  unknown  in  France,  collective  and  corporate 
authority  is  such  a constant  and  intimate  one,  the  entire 
social  structure  is  so  elaborately  organized  for  the  general 
rather  than  the  particular  good,  that  to  leave  even  so  par- 
ticular a matter  as  marriage  wholly  to  the  whim  of  the 
persons  directly  interested  would  be  foreign  to  the 
national  proclivities.  No  sentiment  is  too  sacred,  no 
feeling  too  intimate,  to  be  thus  centrally  administered,  as 
it  were,  by  society.  If  they  are  sacred  and  intimate 
enough  and  for  any  reason — often  for  a reason  which 
might  to  us  appear  frivolous — intensely  enough  recalci- 
trant to  the  code,  their  violation  of  it  will  be  tolerated 
and  even  applauded.  But  the  notion  that  the  code  should 
not  deal  with  the  subject  at  all  would  be  esteemed  as 
absurd  as  we  should  esteem  it  to  disparage  marriage 
though  permitting  divorce. 

The  French  marriage  being  thus  distinctly  not  the  affair 
of  sentiment  which  it  is  with  us,  the  ideal  formed  for  a 
woman’s  deportment  within  its  bonds  differs  proportion- 
ally from  that  to  which  we  hold  our  married  women.  Of 
the  strictness  of  the  latter  one  hardly  needs  to  be  re- 
minded. The  husband  himself  insists  upon  it  with  virtu- 
ous sufficiency.  The  wife  herself  admires  this  attitude  in 
him.  He  becomes  in  a way  her  spiritual  director,  and 
she  in  some  sense  his  penitent.  Following  his  idea  of 
making  a companion  of  her,  he  arranges  her  reading, 
counsels  the  disposition  of  her  leisure,  modifies  the  list  of 
her  acquaintance,  in  proportion  as  he  attaches  value  to 


Women 


>83 


these  things.  If  her  family  have  been  of  a different  politi- 
cal or  religious  faith  from  his  own,  he  devotes  no  small 
labor  to  the  subtle  undermining  of  her  prejudices.  She 
is  his  wife,  presiding  over  his  household,  entertaining  his 
friends.  She  sees  the  world  through  his  spectacles — such 
of  it  as  he  permits.  Her  amusements  are  such  as  he 
approves,  her  study  such  as  he  directs.  Her  destiny  and 
glory  are  to  be  the  mother  of  his  children,  the  ornament 
of  his  fireside,  his  help-meet.  This  at  least  the  Teutonism 
underlying  our  American  chivalry  makes  our  ideal  in  man}7 
instances,  and  in  these  instances  it  is  realized  by  our 
women  with  a grace  and  dignity  which  ought,  perhaps,  to 
do  more  than  they  do  to  keep  our  men  up  to  the  mark  of 
realizing  its  counterpart.  There  are  with  us  of  course 
very  few  average  men  who  do  not  expect  their  wives  to 
take  them  at  their  own  valuation  — very  few  average 
women  who  do  not  thus  take  their  husbands,  at  least  until 
they  become  grandmothers.  Indeed  the  mental  acuteness 
and  moral  independence  of  our  women  are  in  many  cases 
pitched  to  a considerably  lower  key  than  even  this;  they 
are  expected  to  and  do  take  their  husbands  not  merely  at 
the  self-valuation  of  these  latter,  but  at  the  valuation 
fixed  by  marital  diplomacy  as  well  as  by  marital  conceit. 
There  is  indeed  to  some  extent  with  us  an  unconfessed 
but  perfectly  recognized  freemasonry  of  husbands,  having 
for  its  object  the  preservation  in  the  fairer  sex  of  illusions 
as  to  the  sterner.  Treachery  to  this  is  extremely  uncom- 
mon, and  is  regarded  as  almost  base  by  the  occasional 
traitor  himself.  It  is  painful  to  the  American  husband  to 
witness  the  absence  of  similar  illusions  in  the  French- 
woman. The  discovery  of  her  opinion  of  the  opposite  sex 
and  her  complacent  acquiescence  therein  comes  to  him 
with  a certain  shock  ; it  is  some  time  before  he  recovers 


184 


French  Traits 


from  it  and  again  permits  himself  to  be  attracted  by  what 
to  him  seems  the  uncomfortable  paradox  of  blasee  feminin- 
ity. It  is  important  to  distinguish,  however,  that  the 
absence  of  illusions  in  the  Frenchwoman  as  to  masculine 
qualities  by  no  means  implies,  as  a similar  absence  might 
be  taken  to  imply  with  us,  a more  or  less  brutal  disillu- 
sionizing process  as  having  taken  place  and  left  its  scar 
and  stain  upon  feminine  freshness.  The  Frenchwoman  is 
simply  almost  never  naive , in  great  things  any  more  than 
in  small.  I he  French  ideal  excludes  naivete , and  from  a 
I' rench  point  of  view  she  is  never  more  femme  than  when 
she  is  least  naive j to  be  naif  is  the  next  thing  to  being 
insignificant,  and  to  be  insignificant  is  ignominy. 

One  effect  of  this  attitude  is  to  make  the  Frenchwoman 
much  more  serious  in  an  intellectual  sense  than  is  possible 
to  women  whose  cherishing  of  illusions  is  systematic. 
They  are  far  more  nearly  at  the  centre  of  the  situation; 
their  comprehension  of  motives  is  far  wider,  their  acquaint- 
ance with  sociological  data  and  causes  far  more  intimate. 
1’hey  are  far  less  dependent  upon  their  emotions  in  the 
exercise  of  their  judgment;  and  thus  a perfect  acquaint- 
ance with  the  facts  and  their  bearings  in  any  given  case, 
and  with  the  great  mass  of  material  to  which  secondarily 
and  indirectly  any  given  case  is  to  be  referred,  and  by 
which  in  large  measure  it  is  to  be  judged,  relieves  them 
of  this  one  great  reproach  which  among  us  is  constantly 
addressed  to  women  who  make  any  attempt  to  discuss 
serious  topics.  They  are  in  no  wise  driven  to  the  make- 
shift of  making  uP  by  the  intensity  of  emotion  for  imper- 
fect comprehension.  In  fine,  whereas  we  seek  the  artificial 
stimulus  for  certain  virtues  in  what  may  be  fancifully  called 
a “ protective  policy  ” as  applied  to  women,  the  French 
are  believers  in  social  free  trade,  with  individual  competi- 


Women 


i85 

tion  and  survival  of  the  socially  fittest  the  only  winnowing 
principle  recognized. 

And  the  characteristic  effect  of  each  theory  is  by  no 
means  confined  to  women  alone,  or  to  women  and  what 
passes  for  society  in  general.  It  is  very  marked  upon  the 
men  considered  apart — as  with  us  they  have  to  be  consid- 
ered in  so  many  relations.  It  is  of  course  impossible  to 
make  of  an  entire  sex  a class  by  itself  which,  unconsidered 
in  any  but  the  domestic  and  decorative  functions  of  life, 
shall  have  no  influence  upon  the  habits  of  thought  and  the 
courses  of  conduct  of  the  other  sex  in  even  those  matters 
with  which  the  latter  exclusively  charges  itself.  In  a gen- 
eral and  vague  way  we  are  so  far  from  denying  this  that 
we  make  a merit  of  sustaining  the  contrary.  It  is  indeed 
because  we  value  so  much  what  is  called  “ the  purifying 
influence  of  woman  ” that  we  like  to  keep  her  so  far 
removed  from  the  dust  and  stain  of  street  or  forum  dis- 
cussion. But  now  and  then  this  remoteness  not  only  acts 
upon  themselves  in  the  way  just  indicated — throws  them 
back  upon  pure  feeling  in  matters  of  pure  judgment,  that 
is  to  say;  it  gives  a decided  twist,  a divergence  of  marked 
eccentricity  to  the  movement  of  exclusively  masculine 
thought  and  discussion.  Men  who  are  very  much  with 
women  and  very  little  in  the  world  betray  this  influence 
upon  their  philosophy  quite  as  much,  often,  as  they  illus- 
trate in  their  conduct  the  general  “ purifying  influence.” 
Instances  are  within  the  recalling  of  every  reflecting 
observer.  They  illustrate  a state  of  mind  and  temper 
analogous  to  that  of  the  dweller  in  the  country,  as  com- 
pared with  the  metropolitan,  or  if  one  chooses,  the  “ cock- 
ney ” temper  and  mind;  or  that  of  the  Middle  Ages 
philosopher  compared  with  the  modern  sociologist. 
D’Alembert,  says  Mr.  John  Morley,  adopted  instead  of 


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the  old  monastic  vow  of  poverty,  chastity,  obedience, 
“ the  manlier  substitute  of  poverty,  truth,  liberty.”  The 
substitute  may  be  more  manly;  undoubtedly  the  modern 
world,  breaking  more  and  more  completely  with  Middle 
Age  ideals,  tends  more  and  more  so  to  believe.  But  it  is 
certainly  not  more  womanly,  as  we  understand  the  term, 
and  in  our  society,  owing  to  the  influence  aforesaid,  many 
men  feel  that  there  is  something  radically  defective  in  any 
social  philosophy  to  which  women — and  women  as  we 
make  them — do  not  subscribe. 

Very  slight  analogy  of  this  influence  is  to  be  encoun- 
tered in  France.  And  the  reason,  many  persons  will  say, 
is  because  women  as  such  have  no  influence  in  France, 
because  France  is  socially  organized  entirely  with  a view 
to  the  interest  and  pleasure  of  men.  One  hears  that  con- 
stantly from  Americans  in  Paris.  Women  are  not  admit- 
ted to  the  orchestra  chairs  of  some  of  the  theatres.  In 
omnibuses  and  tramways  place  aux  dames  is  a satirical 
phrase  denoting  a civility  far  from  the  heart  of  the  ordi- 
nary French  male.  The  cabs  charge  upon  both  sexes 
alike.  The  divorce  law,  so  long  withheld  in  the  interest 
of  men,  with  its  proposition  odiously  unjust  to  women  so 
nearly  adopted,  the  arguments  on  either  side  during  the 
debate  were  excellent  illustrations  of  the  general  feeling. 
The  vice  most  inimical  to  women  is  licensed  and  regulated 
for  the  benefit  of  men.  Women’s  fate  in  the  highest  as 
well  as  in  the  lowest  social  circle  is  to  be  pursued  by  man 
— pursued,  too,  brutally  and  prosaically.  In  marriage  it  is 
the  men  who  are  mercenary.  What  American  in  France, 
I say,  has  not  heard  a great  deal  of  this  from  his  travel- 
ling countrywomen?  The  Frenchman’s  answer  to  it  all  is 
that  it  is  superficial  and  unintelligent,  and  he  attributes 
such  criticism  to  what  he  deems  our  habit  of  separating 


Women 


187 


the  sexes  in  thought  and  in  fact,  which  in  its  turn  he 
thinks  attributable  to  our  not  having  fully  emerged  from 
the  pioneer  stage  of  civilization  wherein  men  and  women 
have  markedly  distinct  functions  to  perform  and  demand 
markedly  distinct  treatment  and  consideration.  In  an  old 
society  such  careful  and  conscious  distinctions  are  not 
needed;  like  the  marching  of  regulars  the  adjustment 
takes  care  of  itself.  At  all  events  what  we  refer  to  as 
women’s  influence  upon  man  is  in  such  a society  less 
formal,  less  immediately  recognizable.  Co-operation  be- 
tween the  sexes  is  so  complete  in  France  that  their  recip- 
rocal influences  are,  so  far  as  they  are  obviously  traceable, 
mere  matters  of  detail.  The  position  of  woman  in  France 
at  the  present  time  is  certainly  one  of  the  results  of  mod- 
ern civilization  working  upon,  socially  speaking,  the  most 
highly  developed  people  of  a race  which  “ invented  the 
muses  and  chivalry  and  the  Madonna  ” — and  of  that  race 
the  people  which  has  produced  by  far  the  greatest  number 
of  eminent  women.  And  if  it  seem  to  us  and  especially  to 
our  travelling  countrywomen  an  unworthy  position,  and 
inferior  to  that  which  women  hold  with  us,  the  reason  is 
not  to  be  sought  in  the  absence  of  a marked  and  rigid  dis- 
tinction between  the  sexes,  in  which  we  ourselves  would 
have  to  yield  the  palm  to  the  Semitic  and  polygamous  peo- 
ples, who  have  carried  the  idea  to  a perfection  of  logical 
development  undreamed  of  by  us. 

However,  the  real  answer  to  this  is  that  Frenchwomen 
themselves  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  this  position.  They 
do  not  find  it  humiliating,  as  it  is  hardly  likely  they  would 
fail  to  do,  being  tolerably  susceptible,  if  there  were  not 
some  error  about  its  being  really  humiliating.  Their 
influence  upon  men  is  perhaps  not  the  less  real  for  being 
less  marked.  If  it  is  not  what  we  mean  by  “ purifying  ” 


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French  Traits 


it  is  assuredly  refining.  It  is  as  hostile  to  grossness  as 
women’s  influence  with  us  is  to  immorality.  Indeed  it 
is  to  this  influence  that  is  to  be  distinctly  ascribed  the 
losing  by  vice  of  half  its  evil,  to  recall  Burke’s  phrase. 
“ His  wife,  I find,  is  acquainted  with  the  whole  affair. 
This  is  the  woman’s  country!”  exclaims  Gouverneur  Mor- 
ris in  his  Paris  diary  in  1789;  and  it  is  only  a Frenchman, 
I fancy,  who  would  agree  with  M.  Jules  Lemaitre,  who 
said  the  other  day  that  if  he  could  be  just  what  he  chose 
he  would  be  first  of  all  a beautiful  woman.  The  condi- 
tions of  the  active  operation  of  feminine  influence  in 
France  are  nearly  the  opposite  of  those  with  us.  They 
consist  in  the  co-operation  between  the  sexes  before 
alluded  to,  in  the  possession  of  the  same  social  philoso- 
phy by  men  and  women,  the  same  opportunities,  the  same 
knowledge  of  motives  and  data,  of  facts  and  general  prin- 
ciples. Just  as  with  us  these  conditions  consist  in  a sepa- 
ration and  exaltation  of  woman’s  sphere  far  above  contact 
with  the  rude  strife  of  natural  passions  and  complex  inter- 
ests, the  intricate  and  absorbing  conflict  of  business,  poli- 
tics, amusement,  and  ennui  of  which  the  real  drama  of 
human  life  is  composed. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  ART  INSTINCT 

“ In  art,”  exclaims  a French  critic,  M.  Jacques  de  Biez, 
” we  care  more  for  the  true  than  even  for  the  beautiful  ” — 
ce  qu  il  nous  faut,  c est  le  vrai  dans  1' art  plus  encore  que  le 
beau . Nothing  could  be  more  just.  It  is  precisely  for  this 
reason  that  sentimental  and  poetical  peoples  have  hitherto 
wholly  surpassed  the  French  in  art,  where  the  beautiful  is 
of  even  more  importance  than  the  true;  Italy  in  plastic 
art,  for  example,  the  Germans  in  music,  the  English  in 
poetry.  In  vain  does  Victor  Hugo,  running  down  the  list 
of  great  poets,  associate  Voltaire  with  Dante  and  Shake- 
speare; in  vain  does  every  French  writer  on  art,  having 
occasion,  in  any  general  way,  to  mention  Raphael,  habit- 
ually add  the  name  of  Poussin:  none  but  Frenchmen  are 
deceived.  Corneille,  Racine,  Jouvenet,  Le  Sueur,  Lebrun, 
Watteau,  Puget,  Jean  Goujon,  Mignard,  Houdon  are  glo- 
rious names,  but  they  are  not  to  be  imposed  as  names  of 
the  first  class,  ranking  with  Velasquez,  with  Rembrandt, 
with  Milton,  Donatello,  Leonardo,  Goethe,  when  it  is  “ the 
art  of  art  ” that  is  in  question.  What  foreigner  has  not 
been  struck  by  the  struggle  which  the  French  canvases  in 
the  Salon  carre  of  the  Louvre  make  to  justify  their  places 
in  the  serene  and  lofty  company  of  the  great  Flemish, 
Dutch,  Venetian  masterpieces?  One  looks  at  Jouvenet’s 
fine  “ Descent  from  the  Cross,”  and  thinks  of  Rubens’s  at 
Antwerp,  of  Daniele  da  Volterra’s  at  Rome,  of  Sodoma’s 


9° 


French  Traits 


at  Sienna,  of  Rembrandt’s  at  Munich.  A glance  from  Le 
Sueur’s  soft  “ Saint  Scholastica  ” to  the  gorgeous  Rubens 
above  it,  from  Poussin’s  portrait  of  himself  to  Rem- 
brandt’s “ Saskia,”  from  Rigaud’s  “ Bossuet  ” to  Hol- 
bein’s “ Erasmus,”  from  Caspar  Poussin’s  rural  idyl  to 
Giorgione’s,  brings  one  into  a wholly  different  aesthetic 
atmosphere;  just  as  turning  from  “ Hernani,”  or  “ Le 
roi  s’amuse,”  to  Wordsworth  or  Keats,  or  from  “ Fra 
Diavolo  ” to  “ Oberon,”  does  in  other  departments  of 
fine  art.  It  is  the  change  from  the  atmosphere  of  the 
intelligence  to  that  of  poetry,  from  an  atmosphere  in 
which  the  true  is  insisted  on  to  the  region  where  the  sense 
of  discovery,  the  imagination,  genius  with  its  unexpected- 
ness and  its  aspirations,  are  overmasteringly  occupied 
with  beauty.  Metaphysical  critics  will  deny  the  distinc- 
tion, perhaps,  and  remind  us  of  Plato’s  definition  of 
beauty  as  merely  ‘‘the  splendor  of  truth,”  but  plain- 
thinking minds  will  readily  perceive  the  practical  differ- 
ence arising  between  the  art  of  a nation  which  devotes 
itself  to  the  splendor,  and  that  of  one  concerned  chiefly 
about  the  constitution,  of  truth.  When  the  latter  attitude 
of  mind,  indeed,  becomes  excessive,  as  it  has  become  in 
France,  the  very  intelligence  which  is  the  object  of  such 
direct  and  concentrated  cultivation  suffers  obscuration, 
and  the  faculty  itself  of  appreciation  loses  the  keenness  of 
its  edge.  Thus  Stendhal,  who  passed  his  life  among  the 
masterpieces  of  Italian  art,  and  who  had  a passion  for  the 
beautiful  which  made  him  the  bitterest  of  the  critics  of 
pure  rhetoric — Stendhal  is  perpetually  finding  the  sum  of 
all  pictorial  qualities  in  Guido.  And  Fromentin,  an  esprit 
delicat,  if  ever  there  was  one,  discovers  with  every  mark 
of  surprise,  and  proclaims  with  every  sign  of  conscious 
temerity,  that  Rembrandt  was  an  idealist  in  disguise. 


The  Art  Instinct 


1 9 1 


Why  in  disguise?  asks  every  reader  but  the  Frenchman, 
the  devotee  of  order  and  measure,  who  finds  it  astonishing 
that  poetry  should  be  extracted  from  ordinarily  prosaic 
material.  Down  to  Delacroix,  French  painting  is  mainly 
a continuation  of  the  Bolognese  school. 

It  is  precisely  for  the  same  reason  that  the  French  art 
of  the  present  day,  while  it  interests  every  one  extremely, 
moves  and  touches  so  little  any  one  but  the  French  them- 
selves. It  is  true  that  French  painting  and  sculpture 
stand  at  the  head  of  contemporary  plastic  art.  It  is  true 
that  such  sculptors  as  M.  Rodin  and  M.  Dalou  recall  the 
best  days  of  the  Italian  Renaissance;  and  that  from  Dela- 
croix to  Degas  is  a line  of  painters  whose  works  are  as 
sure  of  the  admiration  of  posterity  as  of  their  present 
fame.  And  nowhere  else  is  there  anything  in  contempo- 
rary art  to  be  seriously  compared  with  the  productions  of 
these  men.  There  is  a fine  landscape  school  at  The 
Hague.  Mr.  Alma  Tadema  is  an  extremely  clever  painter, 
and  Mr.  Poynter  and  Mr.  Burne-Jones  are  men  indisputa- 
bly provided  with  what  the  French  call  a “ temperament.” 
There  are  Mr.  Whistler  and  Mr.  La  Farge,  who  are  un- 
classifiable,  and  so  entirely  individual  that  to  argue  from 
them  to  their  respective  milieus  would  be  unwarrantable. 
There  are  Signor  Nono  in  Venice,  and  Signor  Segantini  in 
Milan,  truly  poetic  artists  as  well  as  thoroughly  equipped 
painters,  who  are  sure  one  day  of  a fame  of  wider  than 
Italian  extent.  But  putting  all  these  together  (and  add- 
ing even,  if  any  reader  chooses,  the  painting  professors  of 
Germany),  it  is  evident  that  they  make  but  an  insignifi- 
cant showing  beside  the  names  first  mentioned  and  those 
with  which  these  are  associated — Carpeaux,  Rude,  Barye, 
Corot,  Courbet,  Rousseau,  Troyon,  and  Millet.  These 
men,  however,  are  wholly  exceptional,  not  only  in  the 


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French  Traits 


possession  of  conspicuous  genius,  but  in  the  quality  of 
their  genius.  It  cannot  be  said  that  this  is  not  French — 
it  is  certainly  nothing  else;  but  it  is  the  kind  of  genius 
that  is  the  rare  exception  in  France,  and  that  makes  its 
way  there,  not  amid  the  favoring  and  forwarding  influences 
of  popular  sympathy,  but  against  the  current  of  opinion 
and  the  whole  drift  of  feeling.  Make  their  way,  too,  these 
men  have  all  done.  The  Institute  might  frown  on  Barye, 
and  the  Salon  juries  reject  Millet;  but  it  is  idle  to  argue 
from  this  hostility,  as  ignorance  so  frequently  does,  that 
France  has  often  failed  to  appreciate  her  most  admirable 
artists,  her  most  poetic  and  truly  exalted  talent.  Invaria- 
bly they  “ arrive,”  as  the  phrase  is;  and  they  arrive  first 
in  Paris,  where  they  have  indeed,  from  the  first,  never 
failed  of  supporters.  M.  Rodin’s  most  pronounced  and 
most  uncompromising  work  is  now  in  the  Luxembourg; 
we  may  one  day  expect  to  see  a work  by  Manet  in  the 
Louvre.  The  French  mind  is  elastic,  and  French  public 
opinion  tolerant  to  a degree  which  shames  the  prejudice  of 
other  peoples. 

All  these  considerations,  however,  do  not  at  all  obscure 
the  fact  that  it  is  not  M.  Puvis  de  Chavannes  that  Paris 
really  admires,  but — let  us  not  say  M.  Bouguereau,  for 
that  would  be  unfair,  or  M.  Cabanel,  or  even  M.  Gerome, 
though  each  of  these  painters  is  honored  in  his  own  coun- 
try in  a way  which  it  is  difficult  for  a foreigner  to  under- 
stand. Let  us  say  M.  Meissonier.  M.  Meissonier  pre- 
sides without  a rival  in  French  estimation  generally;  his 
qualities  are  precisely  those  which  appeal  to  French  ad- 
miration— sanity,  flawless  workmanship,  thoroughly  ade- 
quate expression  of  a wholly  clear  and  dignified  pictorial 
motive.  Or,  if  his  defective  sense  for  what  is  poetic  be 
pointed  out,  the  Parisian  will  in  turn  point  to  M.  Henner, 


The  Art  Instinct 


193 


with  whose  art  he  has  in  general  less  sympathy,  but  whose 
poetic  sense  he  feels  must  be  striking  enough  for  any  one’s 
taste.  And  it  is  undeniable  that  the  Salon,  or  even  the 
greater  part  of  the  Luxembourg,  seems,  to  the  sensitive 
foreigner  the  aesthetic  side  of  whose  nature  is  developed 
in  any  considerable  degree,  particularly  lacking  in  those 
elements  which  place  the  plastic  arts  in  the  same  category 
with  music  and  poetry.  The  trail  of  the  conventional  is 
apparent  on  every  hand.  Original  inspiration,  of  what- 
ever character,  is  infrequent.  The  faculties  are,  in  the 
vast  majority  of  instances,  mainly  occupied  and  occasion- 
ally exhausted  in  technical  expression.  With  the  idea,  the 
sentiment,  the  theme,  the  artist  does  not  concern  himself 
in  anything  like  the  same  degree.  As  to  this,  he  selects 
rather  than  invents,  and  his  material  is  inexhaustible. 
France  is  the  only  country  which  has  kept  alive  the  Re- 
naissance tradition,  and  consequently  education  in  France 
means  familiarity  with  a far  greater  number  of  artistic 
generalizations,  of  precedents,  and  authorities,  than  exist 
elsewhere.  Speaking  loosely,  it  may  be  said  that,  of  every 
problem  which  the  French  artist  attacks,  he  knows  in 
advance  various  authoritative  and  accepted  solutions. 
Irresistibly  he  is  impelled  to  take  advantage  of  these. 
He  could  not,  if  he  would,  go  over  the  whole  ground  for 
himself  as  if  it  were  virgin  soil.  Inevitably  his  zest  for 
discovery  is  less  vivacious,  and  the  edge  of  his  impulse 
dulled.  He  counts  the  less  personally  for  his  acquisi- 
tions; his  equipment  saps  his  original  force;  he  cares  less 
about  subject  and  more  about  treatment.  Incompetence 
is  what  he  most  dreads  in  the  general  competition.  To 
avoid  appearing  ridiculous  is  as  much  an  anxiety  of  the 
artist  as  of  any  other  Frenchman.  He  holds  himself, 
therefore,  well  in  hand,  and  proceeds  systematically.  He 


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French  Traits 


surrenders  himself  to  no  afflatus  but  that  of  science.  In 
every  department  of  artistic  effort,  then,  where  training  is 
salutary  and  education  possible — that  is  to  say,  not  merely 
in  method  but  in  general  attitude — the  French  artist  excels. 
Freak,  fantasticality,  emotional  exuberance  are  nearly 
unknown.  Les  incohe  rents  are  mainly  practical  jokers, 
and  the  rest  gain  no  acceptance.  In  this  way,  as  the 
epoch  changes  in  taste,  seriousness,  ideas,  objects  of  inter- 
est, Lebrun,  Boucher,  David,  M.  Meissonier,  are  succes- 
sively developed.  And  to-day  the  French  appreciation  of 
M.  Meissonier — the  French  feeling  that  he  is  the  fine 
flower  of  what  in  France  is  most  confidently  believed  in — 
has  become  in  fact  a cult.  It  would  scarcely  be  fanciful 
to  find  something  religious  in  the  intelligent  idolatry  of 
the  daily  crowd  at  M.  Meissonier’s  exhibition  of  his  works 
a few  years  ago.  The  Galerie  Petit  was  a temple.  M. 
Meissonier  himself  conceives  his  mission  in  eminently 
hierarchical  fashion. 

In  fine,  the  lack  of  personal  quality  born  of  the  social 
instinct,  and  illustrated  in  French  manners,  shows  itself 
in  French  art  as  well,  and  has  done  so  from  the  time  of 
Francis  I.,  when  classicism  was  born  in  full  panoply 
instead  of,  like  its  Italian  foster-mother,  attaining  classic 
stature  through  natural  stages  of  growth.  The  arts  of 
comedy  and  conversation  aside,  in  which  personality  is 
almost  obliterated  and  the  social,  appreciative,  and  purely 
intellectual  faculties  are  most  actively  engaged,  French 
art  does  not  in  general  contain  enough  personal  flavor  to 
escape  conventionality.  To  thus  escape  it  depends  on  its 
geniuses,  its  wholly  exceptional  names.  Certainly  strenu- 
ous personality  is  sure  to  per$er — to  come  to  the  surface — 
and  its  ability  to  issue  from  the  mass  to  which  culture 
gives  a conventional  uniformity  is  excellent  test  and  wit- 


The  Art  Instinct 


195 


ness  of  its  quality.  A triumph  over  the  Institute  affirms 
an  artist’s  force  and  fortifies  his  vitality  as  nothing  else 
can.  And  it  is  equally  true  that  where  art  is  classic  and 
its  following  popular,  more  individuals  practise  it,  and  the 
chances  of  thus  developing  an  exceptional  personality  are 
proportionally  increased.  But  these  considerations,  how- 
ever obvious,  are  more  or  less  speculative,  and  the  fact 
remains  that  not  only  the  mass  of  French  art,  but  the 
portion  of  it  which  is  at  once  most  characteristic  and 
most  cordially  appreciated  by  the  French  public,  is  alto- 
gether too  impersonal  to  be  poetic. 

Personality,  I take  it,  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry.  Wher- 
ever the  note  of  culture  predominates  and  the  individual 
is  subordinated,  poetry  suffers.  The  personality  may  be 
illusory,  and  “ barbaric  yawps  ” as  unaccompanied  by 
poetry  as  by  culture.  But  there  is  no  poetry  without 
sentiment  and  feeling,  and  sentiment  and  feeling  mean 
individuality  accentuated  in  proportion  to  their  intensity. 
The  intellect  is  in  comparison  impersonality  itself.  Less 
personal,  less  concentrated,  and  less  sentimental  than  any 
other  people’s,  French  expression  in  every  department 
of  art  is  less  poetic  also.  Wordsworth’s  objection  to 
Goethe’s  poetry,  that  it  was  not  “ inevitable  enough,”  is 
applicable  to  all  French  art.  “ Possession  ” implies  not 
less,  but  more  personality,  since  it  means  an  intensifica- 
tion of  the  sentimental,  incommunicable,  individual  side 
of  the  poet’s  nature,  and  its  proportionate  emancipation 
from  control  by  the  definite  and  rational  standards  which 
mankind  enjoy  in  common.  “ Superiority  of  intellect,” 
Carlyle  notes  as  Shakespeare’s  distinguishing  characteris- 
tic, but  his  Protean  personality  is  rather  what  separates 
Shakespeare  from  other  giants  of  intellect,  and  this  indeed 
is  what  we  really  mean  by  calling  his  art  “objective.” 


196 


French  Traits 


Just  as  in  the  instance  of  the  “objective”  Goethe,  the 
“ Gedichte  ” and  “ Faust  ” are  called  immortal  works  by 
Goethe’s  most  incisive  critic,  who  says  that  here  only  is 
Goethe  “ truly  original  and  thoroughly  superior,”  be- 
cause “ they  issue  from  a personal  feeling  and  the  spirit 
of  system  has  not  petrified  them.”  Perfectly  impersonal 
art  is  infallibly  marked  by  convention,  and  convention  is 
the  implacable  foe  of  poetry  everywhere.  It  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  a friend  and  ally  of  prose,  of  what  is  commu- 
nicable and  rational. 

Frenchmen  resent  being  told  that  their  genius  for  prose 
is  a possession  which  involves  an  incapacity  for  poetry, 
an  insensitiveness  to  what  is  intimately  poetic.  But  they 
must  pay  in  this  way  for  their  highly-developed  social  and 
rational  side.  “ As  civilization  advances  poetry  almost 
necessarily  declines,”  says  Macaulay;  which  is  perhaps 
too  general  a statement,  considering  the  coincidence  of 
civilization  and  poetry  of  the  very  highest  order  at  one 
moment,  at  least,  in  the  race’s  history.  But  M.  Scherer 
is  undoubtedly  right,  speaking  for  France  alone,  in  doubt- 
ing whether  “ our  modern  society  will  continue  to  have  a 
poetry  at  all.”  M.  Francisque  Sarcey,  who  is  in  general 
good  nature  itself,  becomes  almost  irritated  at  an  English 
judgment  of  Victor  Hugo  maintaining  that  Hugo  is  a 
great  romancer  rather  than  a true  poet.  Yet  in  his  charm* 
ing  “ Souvenirs  de  Jeunesse,”  having  to  confess  that  he 
has  made  verses,  he  exclaims:  “ Where  is  the  man  who 
can  flatter  himself  that  he  knows  the  language  of  prose,  if 
he  has  not  assiduously  practised  that  of  poetry?”  And  he 
adds,  “ One  learns  the  happy  choice  of  words,  the  number 
of  the  phrase,  and  the  grace  of  felicitous  expression  only 
in  forging  his  style  on  the  hard  anvil  of  the  Alexandrine.  ” 
La  pSniblc  encl ume  de  /' alexandrin  ! Fancy  an  English  or 


The  Art  Instinct 


197 


American  writer  of  M.  Sarcey’s  eminence  speaking  in  that 
way  of  what  a French  critic  calls  “ the  majestic  English 
iambic.”  “ On  n’est  trahi  que  par  les  siens,”  according 
to  the  French  proverb.  This  statement  of  M.  Sarcey’s 
hits  the  nail  exactly  on  the  head.  Poetry  is  in  France 
an  exercise,  not  an  expression.  It  is  to  real  French 
expression,  to  prose,  what  gymnastics  and  hygiene  are  to 
health.  And  not  only  is  this  true  of  the  verses  of  the 
litterateur  forging  his  prose  on  the  anvil  of  the  ten-sylla- 
ble couplet,  the  litterateur  of  whom  M.  Sarcey  may  be 
taken  as  the  type,  but  of  the  poets  themselves  it  is  true 
that  poetry  is  conceived  and  handled  by  them  as  some- 
thing external  rather  than  native,  something  whose  quali- 
ties they  are  felicitously  to  illustrate  rather  than  to  employ 
sympathetically  and  spontaneously  for  illustration  of  the 
idea  or  emotion  seeking  expression.  Conceived  in  this 
way,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  the  form  became  tyrannical, 
how  the  despotism  of  the  Alexandrine  arose.  And  we 
may  certainly  say  that  conceived  in  this  way  it  never 
would  have  been  but  for  the  national  genius  for  highly- 
developed  regularity  and  symmetry  of  form,  for  clearness, 
compactness,  measure,  and  balance,  for  forging  its  fine 
prose,  in  a word,  on  the  anvil  of  the  Alexandrine. 

But  for  form  the  French  have  an  unrivalled  sense — a 
sense  which  unites  them  closely  to  the  antique  and  to  the 
Italian  Renaissance.  If  they  have  not  the  highest  sub- 
stance, they  have  the  severest  expression  of  any  modern 
people;  if  they  are  the  least  poetic,  they  are  certainly  the 
most  artistic.  I know  that  nowadays  the  latter  epithet  is 
frequently  used  in  a rigidly  esoteric  sense.  But  such 
terms  have  a literary  as  well  as  a professional  and  pedan- 
tic value,  and  no  one  will  fail  to  seize  the  distinction  here 
hinted  at,  however  he  may  himself  identify  artistic  with 


198 


French  Traits 


poetic.  The  one  means  keeping  one’s  self  well  in  hand, 
and  the  other  abandon  and  exaltation;  one  is  constructive, 
the  other  inventive;  one  manipulates,  the  other  discovers. 
In  this  sense,  then,  “ artistic  ” may  be  used  to  describe 
the  Frenchman’s  universal  attitude.  He  is  disinclined  to 
accept  nature  in  any  of  her  phases  or  aspects.  His  pas- 
sion is  to  arrange,  to  modify,  to  combine.  He  is  ineradi- 
cably  synthetic.  His  gardens,  parks,  farms,  the  entire 
surface  of  France,  in  fact,  are  landscape  compositions. 
At  Hampton  Court  you  are  in  the  presence  of  the  natural 
forces;  at  Versailles  or  St.  Cloud,  of  artistic  ones.  That 
alliance  with  nature  through  the  inspiration  of  sentiment, 
which  gives  such  repose  and  delight  to  every  other  nation- 
ality, the  Frenchman  takes  no  satisfaction  in.  It  does  not 
call  for  that  active  exercise  of  his  intellectual  faculties 
which  is  necessary  to  his  enjoyment.  And  it  seems  to 
him  rudimentary  and  formless.  He  is  as  intensely  human 
as  he  is  impersonal,  and  nature  outside  of  man  and 
unmoulded  by  man’s  influence  interests  him  only  scien- 
tifically. She  is  emphatically  not  something  to  be  enjoyed 
in  itself,  but  artistic  material  rather,  lying  more  or  less 
ready  to  the  artist’s  hand,  but  demanding  co-ordination 
and  organizing  before  becoming  truly  worthy  of  contem- 
plation. The  hap-hazard,  the  fortuitous,  what  we  call  the 
picturesque,  either  jar  on  the  French  sense  or  strike  it  as 
insufficient  and  elementary.  Naples,  Andalusia,  London 
are  picturesque.  They  are  formless,  full  of  the  unex- 
pected, full  of  color,  physical  and  moral.  They  are  in 
these  respects  in  complete  contrast  to  Paris  and  the 
provinces,  where  every  aspect  is  ordered  and  the  coup-cT oeil 
on  every  hand  artistically  organic.  Here  nothing  is  left 
to  itself  in  any  department  of  possible  human  activity. 
**  The  trouble  with  the  French,”  said  an  Italian  fellow- 


The  Art  Instinct 


i9g 


traveller  to  me  once,  “ is  that  they  can  leave  nothing 
alone.  They  charge  you  more  for  potatoes  au  naturel 
than  for  potatoes  Served  in  any  other  way.” 

French  art  is  thus  naturally  characterized  more  by  style 
than  substance.  It  insists  upon  what  Buffon  calls  “ order 
and  movement  ” more  than  upon  motive.  It  addresses 
itself  to  the  intellect  mainly  rather  than  to  the  sense  or 
the  susceptibility.  French  painting  occupies  itself  more 
than  any  art  except  that  of  the  Dutch  masters  with  subtle 
values,  which  give  a refined  intellectual  pleasure.  The 
magic  of  color  or  composition  which  moves  and  the  sensu- 
ousness which  charms  are  quite  lacking.  It  is  in  line  and 
mass,  and  light  and  shade,  and  delicate  adjustments  of 
harmonious  tones  that  French  painting  excels.  Baudry 
passes  for  grandiose,  and  Bouguereau  for  subtile,  spite  of 
the  eclecticism  of  the  one  and  the  emptiness  of  the  other, 
fundamentally  considered,  because,  abstractedly  and  im- 
personally considered,  mass  and  line  respectively  are  thus 
handled  by  them.  The  excess  of  a devotion  to  form  is 
precisely  this  traditionalism  and  inanity.  The  excess  of  a 
devotion  to  color  is  violence.  Violence  of  any  kind  is 
instinctively  repugnant  to  the  French  sense.  It  is  Ingres, 
and  not  Delacroix,  that  permanently  attaches  and  really 
interests  his  countrymen.  Delacroix  seems  to  them  not 
merely  romantic;  he  seems  violent.  Theophile  Gautier, 
himself  a thorough  romanticist,  calls  Tintoretto  le  roi  des 
fougueux — quite  missing  the  ineffable  sweetness  and  dis- 
tinction of  Tintoretto’s  hues  and  poetic  poses.  There  is 
very  little  color  at  the  Salon ; although  there  is  an  im- 
mense amount  of  quality,  and  of  quality  very  sapiently 
understood,  so  that  nature’s  color  filtered  through  the 
plein  air  process  is  satisfactorily  reproduced.  Yet  passed 
through  the  alembic  of  the  painter’s  personality,  specially 


200 


French  Traits 


observed,  insisted  on,  developed,  it  rarely  is.  “ Gray,” 
says  M.  de  Biez  again,  “ which  is  the  color  of  the  sky  in 
France,  is  also  the  color  of  truth  itself,  of  that  truth  which 
tempers  the  impetuosity  of  enthusiasm  and  restrains  the 
spirit  within  the  middle  spheres  of  precise  reason.”  Noth- 
ing could  more  accurately  attest  the  French  feeling  in 
regard  to  color — the  French  distrust  of  its  riotous  poten- 
tialities. And,  as  when  one  looks  constantly  at  one  side 
of  anything  its  other  side  escapes  him,  the  Salon  is  not 
only  lacking  in  color,  but  it  frequently  illustrates  how  a 
constant  pre-occupation  with  its  value  leads  to  toleration  of 
very  disagreeable  character  in  color.  The  light  and  dark 
harmony  is  now  and  then  perfect,  Xvhile  at  the  same  time 
charm,  perfume,  purely  sensuous  quality  is  quite  lacking. 

Keats  speaks  somewhere  of  ” Lord  Byron’s  last  flash 
poem.”  Following  the  lead  of  the  English  enervated 
school  which  one  of  its  admirers  recently  described  as  try- 
ing to  do  for  painting  what  Keats  did  for  poetry,  one  very 
frequent  notion  of  an  important  side  of  French  art  is 
exactly  expressed  by  this  epithet.  I mean  the  decorative 
side — everything  in  fact  in  which  severity  does  not  notice- 
ably preside.  The  decorative  art  of  the  French  does 
indeed  oftener  than  not  lend  itself  to  the  rococo,  though 
baroque  it  has  rarely  been.  The  extravagances  of  the 
late  Italian,  Spanish,  and  German  Renaissance  were  but 
imperfectly  emulated  in  France,  where,  with  an  occasional 
exception,  such  as  the  sculpture  of  Puget’s  school,  the 
keynote  of  all  the  second-rate  art  since  the  days  of  Gou- 
jon’s and  Delorme’s  imitators  has  been  the  academic 
quality.  Vulgarly  sensational,  whimsical,  eccentric,  that 
is  to  say  ” flash,”  it  has  never  been  except  in  that  com- 
paratively inconsiderable  part  which  has  always  obtained 
infinitely  less  consideration  than  frivolity  of  the  kind  does 


The  Art  Instinct 


201 


elsewhere.  Education  and  the  subordination  of  idiosyn- 
crasy make  it  rare  and  disesteemed.  There  is  nothing  in 
France  like  the  cemetery  at  Genoa.  There  is  nothing  like 
the  interior  of  the  House  of  Lords,  which  a recent  French 
writer  compares  to  a “ thirty-cent  Bohemian  glass  bazar.” 
Nor  like  the  spectacle  in  the  same  hall  during  an  impor- 
tant sitting,  “ when  the  Peeresses’  Gallery  is  adorned  with 
women  in  blue  dresses,  yellow  flowers,  red  fans,  and  apple- 
green  feathers,”  and  when,  consequently,  he  adds,  “ the 
Bohemian  glass  shop  seems  to  have  been  invaded  by  an 
assortment  of  Brazilian  parrots.”  And  we  may  affirm 
that,  even  to  M.  Charles  Gamier  himself,  who  has  loaded 
the  Nouvel  Opera  at  Paris  with  every  mark  of  luxurious 
elegance  conceivable  or  collectable  by  him,  the  decoration 
of  most  American  theatres  and  public  buildings  which 
antedate  the  present  era  of  fastidious  and  forceless  eclec- 
ticism would  seem  “ flash  ” to  the  last  degree.  What  we 
call  “ Salon  nudities  ” are  not  the  catch-penny  things 
similar  canvases  would  be  with  us.  Nudity  is  in  no  Latin 
country  the  sensational  thing  it  is  in  the  world  inhabited 
by  the  British  matron  and  the  American  young  person, 
whose  cheek  it  is  traditionally  so  difficult  to  keep  from 
blushing.  In  the  second  place,  the  Salon  nudities  are 
studies  in  the  most  difficult  department  of  pictorial  art, 
namely,  in  the  painting  of  flesh;  and  the  appeal  of  the 
painter  concerns  his  success  in  this,  and  is  directed  to  a 
trained  jury  and  not  at  all  to  people  to  whom  for  climatic 
reasons  nudity  is  a sensational  thing.  It  is  indeed  doubt- 
ful if  the  Anglo-Saxon  notion  of  his  motive  and  of  his 
accomplishment  could  be  clearly  conveyed  to  a French 
painter — all  that  we  are  apt  to  regard  as  “ flash  ” is  to 
him  so  thoroughly  convention. 

In  fine,  so  far  in  general  are  French  painting  and  sculpt- 


202 


French  Traits 


ure  from  the  extravagant  or  the  wilfully  meretricious, 
that  painting  and  sculpture  may  be  defined  as,  for  the 
French,  the  representation  of  ideas  in  form.  Sometimes 
the  form  becomes  a mere  symbol.  Variations  of  it  are 
esteemed  violences.  But  even  when  it  does  not  reach  this 
state  of  petrifaction  through  system,  it  is  employed  mainly 
to  embody  ideas  rather  than  images,  and  though  never 
morally  didactic,  now  and  then  seems  to  a true  child  of 
nature  not  a little  notional  and  narrow.  “ At  the  Insti- 
tute,” says  M.  Rodin,  contemptuously,  “ they  have 
recipes  for  sentiments.”  As  for  character , style  shrinks 
a little  from  representing  anything  so  little  systematized, 
so  little  brought  into  harmony  with  itself,  so  complex,  so 
vague  in  outline  and  condensed  in  essence,  so  discordant, 
so  tumultuous.  Geniuses  like  Michael  Angelo  and  Tinto- 
retto, who  have  a special  faculty  for  fusing  style  and 
character,  form  and  color,  are  rare.  Generally  the  artist 
leans  toward  one  or  the  other — toward  Raphael  or  Rubens, 
toward  Leonardo  or  Velasquez.  The  “ School  of  Athens  ” 
is  the  exemplar  of  French  effort,  minus  its  spirituality, 
which  is  as  foreign  to  the  French  genius,  perhaps,  as  it  is 
sealed  to  Mr.  Ruskin.  Where  we  find  the  artist  preoccu- 
pied with  character  it  is  apt  to  be  a little  factitious,  as  if 
he  had  wandered  from,  for  him,  the  true  path  and  were 
engaged  in  an  effort  for  which  he  was  distinctly  not  born, 
a wrork  whose  conditions  are  quite  foreign  to  his  capaci- 
ties. Spontaneity  thus  is  rather  stifled  than  stimulated. 
All  formative  influences  induce  restraint,  measure,  order, 
and  oppose  invention  and  experiment.  Even  in  conversa- 
tion you  hear  the  same  expression,  the  same  joke,  indefi- 
nitely repeated.  No  one  seeks  to  vary  them  because  they 
have  become  classic,  because  their  form  is  not  to  be 
improved  upon,  and  any  attempt  in  this  direction  is  fore- 


The  Art  Instinct 


2°3 


doomed  to  failure.  Because,  too,  there  is  such  an  infinite 
variety  of  them.  Excellence  in  this  department  of  activ- 
ity depends  upon  eclectic  taste  and  cultivation;  not  at  all 
upon  personal  inventiveness.  An  American  gets  tired  of 
“ Je  vous  le  donne  en  mille,”  “ II  n’y  a plus  de  Pyrenees,” 
and  the  infinitude  of  such  classic  combinations  and  tradi- 
tion-enshrouded expressions.  The  Frenchman  thinks  no 
more  of  them  than  we  do  of  “ yes  ” and  “ no  ” and  the 
ordinary  parts  of  speech  taken  separately.  He  is  inter- 
ested in  further  combinations,  and  enjoys  dealing  with  the 
classic  ones  as  simple  elements,  so  that  his  result  is  always 
far  more  refined  and  developed.  But  it  is,  after  all, 
wholly  impersonal  and  artistic;  his  originality  has  no- 
where the  chance  of  penetrating  the  substance,  but  ex- 
hausts itself  in  modifying  the  form.  The  same  thing  is 
true,  not  only  of  plastic  art  and  of  poetry,  but  even  of 
music.  French  music  is  as  scientific  as  Palladian  archi- 
tecture. Distinctly  it  lacks  melody.  It  is  full  of  ideas, 
and  its  form  is  full  of  interest;  but  compare  not  the  senti- 
ment of  Saint-Saens  to  that  of  Schubert,  but  the  counter- 
point of  Berlioz  to  that  of  Bach. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  predominance  of  the  element  of 
style  rarely  results  in  the  insipidity  which  elsewhere  seems 
the  inevitable  fate  of  the  refugee  from  the  rococo.  The 
devotion  to  form  is  sometimes  tiresome,  as  in  superficial 
articles  and  prosy  books,  where  a completeness,  not  logi- 
cal and  philosophical  like  the  completeness  of  the  Ger- 
mans, but  purely  of  literary  form,  is  sought.  Subject, 
which  is  in  general  made  so  little  of,  is  occasionally  val- 
ued in  proportion  to  its  hackneyed  and  lifeless  dignity. 
But  insipidity  is  usually  escaped  because  the  artist’s  work 
is  always  positive,  and,  however  conventional,  almost 
never  perfunctory.  Even  if  it  can  be  called  insipid  on 


204 


French  Traits 


occasion,  its  insipidity  is  never  stupid.  The  special  train- 
ing of  the  artist  gives  at  least  the  interest  of  competence 
in  execution,  and  his  general  culture,  the  demands  of  the 
environment,  his  familiarity  with  the  best  models,  ensure 
that  its  substance  shall  not  be  contemptible.  There  is  no- 
where the  flatness,  the  lack  of  accent,  the  pallor,  the  wan, 
chill,  meagre  aspect  which  characterizes  much  of  our 
Protestant  and  polemic  reaction  from  the  earlier  tropical- 
ity.  We  are  no  longer  brutal  or  boisterous,  but  candor 
must  compel  us  to  acknowledge  that  our  artistic  Puritan- 
ism is  a trifle  bleak.  It  is  possible  to  avoid  the  common- 
place and  still  be  uninteresting.  Round  door-knobs  and 
legible  inscriptions  may  make  an  insufficient  appeal  to  the 
sensitiveness  which  demands  the  soothing  stimulus  of 
pleasurable  aspect  everywhere,  but  merely  to  destroy  the 
roundness  and  the  legibility  results  in  nothing  positive 
enough  to  escape  insipidity.  Disgust  with  the  painting  of 
panoramas  and  the  sculpture  of  ideal  inanity  does  little  to 
justify  itself  by  resorting  to  equally  empty  possibilities 
and  realities.  French  culture  and  artificiality  save  art 
from  that  spontaneity  which  ends  in  sterility.  M.  Benja- 
min Constant’s  “ seraglio  ” painting  is  not  truly  rococo, 
nor  is  M.  Jean  Beraud’s  realism  insipid.  The  sense  for 
form  indeed  is  equally  a safeguard  in  either  instance. 

In  every  artistic  effort,  where  the  poetic  note  is  not  so 
imperatively  needed  that  its  absence  is  a positive  flaw,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  attach  too  much  value  to  form. 
Form  is  the  safeguard  and  quickener  of  all  elevated  prose. 
If  it  be  not  itself  the  highest  of  qualities,  if  free  and  force- 
ful as  it  shows  itself  in  Greek  sculpture  it  is  even  there 
subordinate  to  sentiment  and  color,  it  is  everywhere  and 
always  the  inexorable  condition  of  the  highest  qualities; 
they  are  useful  to  it — it  is  necessary  to  them.  And  how 


The  Art  Instinct 


205 


admirable  and  elevating  is  the  prose  which  in  every  depart- 
ment of  art  the  French  sense  for  form  produces!  To  talk 
of  French  painting  as  many  of  our  amateurs  and  artists 
do,  and  as  they  would  of  French  sculpture  were  they 
familiar  enough  with  it  to  perceive  that  most  of  it  has  the 
same  characteristics,  is  merely  to  exhibit  blindness  for  a 
number  of  excellent  qualities  which,  whatever  they  fail 
in,  at  least  save  French  art  from  the  pure  caprices  which 
many  of  our  artists  and  amateurs  execute  and  admire.  As 
the  national  turn  for  intelligence  prevents  life  in  France 
from  being  taken  en  amateur , so  the  national  sense  for 
form  prevents  amateurishness  in  French  art.  Our  art 
students  go  to  Paris  for  instruction  in  technic,  but  it  is  a 
pity  that  they  so  universally  content  themselves  with  that, 
and  so  rarely  acquire  there  the  general  artistic  cultivation 
which  is  there  as  much  a mark  of  professional  excellence 
as  is  excellence  of  technic.  Very  seldom  is  a painter  like 
Mr.  Bridgman,  let  us  say,  a painter  who  understands  his 
capacities  as  well  as  his  tastes — a thoroughly  professional 
painter,  in  a word — returned  to  us  by  Paris  itself  out  of 
the  varied  and  abundant  material  we  send  her.  In  the 
vast  majority  of  cases  she  sends  us  back  amateurs — the 
same  amateurs  who  sought  her  schools,  immensely  better 
equipped  in  technic,  but,  in  pretty  exact  proportion  to 
their  individuality,  preserving  still  the  notions,  whims, 
and  ambitions  with  which  they  set  out — the  visions,  that  is 
to  say,  of  the  incurable  amateur.  Hence  our  art,  spite  of 
the  very  great  improvement  in  technic  within  the  past 
dozen  years,  still  remains  essentially  the  experimentation 
which  it  has  been  from  the  first.  Our  artists  are  as  anx- 
ious as  ever  to  reconstruct  the  basis  of  art,  to  give  it  in 
their  practice  a national  and  personal  flavor,  to  be  racial 
and  individual,  to  display  originality,  and  to  do  all  this 


206 


French  Traits 


fundamentally  and  radically  quite  without  regard  to  the 
immutable  decorum  of  evolution,  and  in  defiance  rather 
than  through  the  aid  of  culture.  Europe  has  constantly 
been  saying  to  us  at  every  international  exhibition,  “ Be 
less  imitative.  Give  us  something  new,  some  ‘ new  birth 
of  your  new  soil.’  ” And  quite  unconscious  that  Euro- 
pean interest  in  our  art  is  one  mainly  of  curiosity,  and 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  our  new  soil,  whatever  its  capaci- 
ties for  producing  great  natural  triumphs  from  human 
character  to  railroads,  from  the  very  fact  that  it  is  new 
demands  careful  culture  to  produce  anything  so  artificial 
as  fine  art,  we  have  gone  about  being  racial  and  individual 
by  pointedly  neglecting  culture  and  by  breaking  defini- 
tively with  tradition. 

Culture  has  been  acutely  defined  as  “ the  power  of 
doing  easily  what  you  don’t  like  to  do.”  Of  culture  in 
this  sense  our  artists,  in  general,  have  not,  I think,  a 
sympathetic  comprehension.  Doing  painfully  what  they 
nevertheless  like  exceedingly  to  do,  describes  rather  their 
practice.  What  they  like  to  do,  at  any  rate,  not  at  all 
what  they  are  fitted  to  do,  is  the  rule  of  their  effort.  And 
it  is  the  unfailing  trait  of  the  amateur.  No  amount  of 
cleverness  can  prevent  the  result  from  insecurity,  from 
essential  triviality,  from  having  that  ephemeral  quality 
characteristic  of  pure  experimentation.  Like  the  clever- 
ness of  Walt  Whitman’s  defiance  of  culture,  only  for  a 
time  can  it  conceal  the  essential  elementariness,  the  really 
rudimentary  attitude  of  mind  which  conceit  leads  na'iveti  to 
mistake  for  finesse.  Curious  conception  of  the  relations 
of  means  to  ends  our  amateur  artists  and  their  amateur 
admirers  must  entertain,  in  conceiving  our  formlessness  of 
sufficient  substance  to  revolutionize  the  judgment  of  the 
ages  as  to  form  and  fitness.  Interested  as  Europe  may  be 


The  Art  Instinct 


207 


in  seeing  us  more  “original,”  we  may  be  sure  we  shall 
never  compel  her  obeisance  to  amateur  originality,  to 
“ originality  ” painfully  retesting  the  exclusions  which 
mark  the  progress  of  culture  and  imagining  itself  invent- 
ive. The  inexpressible  flatness  which  coexists  with  our 
lack  of  sobriety,  of  measure,  of  form  is  grotesque.  We 
can  all  nowadays  recognize  this  quality  in  our  yesterday’s 
art — in  the  architecture  which  aimed  at  effects  in  “ frozen 
music  ” that  would  have  been  the  despair  of  the  flamboy- 
ant Gothic  epoch;  in  the  sculpture  which  attempted  to 
unite  repose  and  action,  the  “ far  off  ” and  the  familiar, 
in  a way  which  Phidias  and  Donatello  were  too  prudent  to 
essay;  in  the  painting  which,  despising  Nature  considered 
as  merely  artistic  material,  surprised  her  in  her  own  picto- 
rial moods  and  endeavored  to  surpass  her  in  intensifica- 
tions of  autumn  color,  exaggerations  of  sierras,  volcanoes, 
and  cataracts,  arrangements  of  woodland  cascades,  ro- 
mantic pools,  “coming  storms, ” and  sentimental  genre 
situations,— endeavored,  in  fine,  to  “ paint  the  lily  ” with 
an  impasto  touch,  the  mere  notion  of  which  would  have 
startled  Claude  and  dismayed  Rembrandt.  But  we  are 
quite  blind  to  the  same  quality  in  our  current  art,  which 
displays  in  its  own  way  the  same  mental  preoccupation 
with  the  search  for  the  philosopher’s  stone  and  perpetual 
motion,  in  complete  neglect  of  the  cautious  dictates  of 
scientific  discovery. 

The  amateur  view  of  art,  of  its  functions  and  character, 
pervades  the  public  as  well  as  the  profession,  which  is 
thus  at  once  measurably  excused  for  and  encouraged  in  its 
superficiality.  Mr.  Howells  draws  up  a list  of  short  story 
writers,  embroidered  with  laudatory  comment  calculated 
to  make  several  dozen  people  imagine  themselves  the 
equals  of  Merimee  and  Maupassant.  It  is  followed 


208 


French  Traits 


promptly  by  a catalogue  of  poets  from  an  equally  friendly 
hand,  which  pleads  for  a more  attentive  audience  for  as 
many  as  forty-one  “ poets,”  few  of  whom  have  ever  suf- 
fered for  the  want  of  a meal,  a new  suit  of  clothes,  or  a 
theatre-ticket,  have  ever  committed  a serious  moral  indis- 
cretion, know  either  pain,  ecstasy,  or  remorse,  have  ever 
experienced  any  deep  emotional  perturbation,  or  enjoyed 
any  unusual  spiritual  excitement,  and  whose  culture  is 
shown  by  their  product  to  correspond  to  their  experience. 
The  popular  and  good-natured  criticism  which  thus  res- 
cues our  litterateurs  and  poets  from  any  peril  of  self- 
depreciation, and  keeps  them  a little  dazed  as  to  the 
exactness  of  their  equivalence  to  Boccaccio  and  Keats, 
has  a similar  effect  in  plastic  art,  where,  as  in  the  matter 
of  prose  and  poetry,  it  merely  formulates  the  feeling  of 
the  entire  public  which  occupies  itself  with  such  subjects. 
The  American  attitude  in  the  presence  of  novelty  of  any 
kind  has  been  described  as  speculation  as  to  “ how  to 
make  something  just  as  good  for  less  money.”  In  art,  at 
all  events,  this  accurately  characterizes  the  demand  of  the 
public  upon  the  artist,  who  is  therefore  stimulated  to 
**  supply  long  felt  wants  ” rather  than  permitted  to  pro- 
duce naturally.  Of  an  artist  of  great  taste  and  refined 
appreciation,  for  instance,  we  excuse,  if  we  do  not  exact, 
parodies  of  the  grandiose  effects  of  Rome  and  of  the  large 
picturesqueness  of  Flanders.  Of  a painter  born  and 
trained  evidently  for  high  class  periodical  illustration, 
we  greet  with  effusion  naif  experimentation  in  the  sphere 
of  Christs,  Venuses,  Last  Suppers,  the  acme  of  classic 
subject.  Of  a sculptor  who  has  a decorative  sense,  we 
persist  in  calling  for  the  heroic  and  statuesque.  And 
while  we  thus  pervert  mere  instinct  and  talent,  we  afford 
little  scope  to  the  free  and  natural  exercise  of  its  energy 


The  Art  Instinct 


2og 


by  the  conspicuous  genius  we  may  legitimately  boast.  If 
in  the  informal  organization  some  semblance  of  which  in 
every  civilized  country  all  professions  tend  inevitably  to 
acquire,  our  artists  did  not  resemble  less  an  army  than  a 
mob;  if  in  the  exercise  of  their  functions  normal  condi- 
tions were  not  so  sourly  disturbed  that  “ time  is  lost  and 
no  proportion  kept;”  does  any  one  suppose  that  Mr. 
Eidlitz  would  build  an  ecclesiastical  savings-bank,  Mr. 
La  Farge  set  a Theocritan  idyl  in  a church  casement,  or 
Mr.  Eakins  choose  the  Crucifixion  for  his  masterpiece? 

Of  course,  in  all  these  respects  artistic  France  presents 
the  completest  possible  contrast  to  ourselves.  The  French 
art  public  does  not  demand  mediaeval  cathedrals  and 
Titians,  early  Renaissance  low  relief  and  pre-Raphaelite 
intensity,  the  Florentine  line  and  the  Venetian  palette. 
It  demands  instead  M.  Gerome.  M.  Gerome  is  by  no 
means  a favorite  of  mine.  His  work,  largely  considered, 
lacks  just  that  element  of  reality  which  apparently  its 
author  and  his  public  conceive  to  be  its  raison  d'itre.  But 
the  evolution  of  such  a painter  and  his  popularity  witness 
strikingly  the  culture  of  the  environment,  where  all  seri- 
ous effort  is  soberly  and  sanely  made,  where  every  artist 
seems  occupied  with  what  he  was  born  to  do,  and  where 
that  crying  disproportion  between  ambition  and  accom- 
plishment characteristic  of  the  amateur  stage  of  progress 
is  reduced  to  a minimum.  M.  Gerome’s  work  is  in  this 
sense  admirably  professional,  and  the  almost  universal 
honor  in  which  it  is  held  is  admirable  recognition  of  this 
aspect  of  it — its  excellence,  that  is  to  say,  in  form,  in 
restraint,  in  a certain  felicity  of  style,  often,  which  raises 
it  far  above  almost  any  contemporary  work  of  the  kind, 
and  occasionally  (as  in  the  “ Ave,  Caesar!  Morituri  te 
salutant  ”)  achieves  for  it  a dramatic  distinction  border- 
14 


210 


French  Traits 


ing  on  grandeur.  Compare  it  for  these  qualities  with  any 
work  produced  among  us  by  fellow-craftsmen  who  find 
Gerome  terribly  deficient  in  charm,  who  have  the  true 
interests  of  art  so  much  at  heart  as  to  fear  compromising 
them  should  they  admit  the  value  of  education,  even  in 
the  absence  of  afflatus.  And  observe  the  prodigious  dif- 
ference between  the  milieu  whose  admiration  fosters  these 
qualities  and  our  own,  which  expiates  its  ignorance  of 
their  importance  by  attaching  itself  to  the  experimental 
and  the  ephemeral,  and  which  by  its  ingenuous  exaction 
of  stimulating  and  contempt  for  sustaining  viands  is  con- 
demned oftenest  to  a Barmecide  banquet  in  the  halls  of 
art. 

Compare,  on  the  other  hand,  such  a work  as  the  “ Ave, 
Caesar!”  with  the  historical  painting  of  Piloty,  or  Wagner, 
or  Kaulbach,  or  even  Hans  Makart.  How  wide  is  the 
interval  by  which  it  escapes  their  touch  of  commonness — 
that  element  which  in  art  as  in  life  we  know  best  as  the 
exact  opposite  of  distinction,  the  Gemeinheit  which  Goethe 
was  always  reprehending,  and  before  which  Heine  fled 
into  exile.  Gerome,  Meissonier,  Boulanger,  Baudry,  Lau- 
rens, Dubufe,  Henner,  Detaille,  Merci6,  Dubois,  Lefebvre, 
Barrias,  Luminais,  Cabanel,  Bouguereau,  Chaplin,  and  a 
score  of  others  placed  in  the  front  rank  by  their  compa- 
triots’ esteem,  testify,  in  a word,  to  the  success  of  the 
national  sense  for  form  in  developing  the  fine  qualities  of 
distinction  and  elegance,  as  well  as  the  solid  ones  of 
special  competence  and  general  culture.  Distinction  is  a 
trait  as  proper  to  prose  as  to  poetry.  It  is  perhaps  even 
more  necessary  to  prose,  and  hence  apt  to  be  therein  more 
generally  developed.  It  is  at  any  rate  a native  and  pene- 
trating quality,  which  shows  itself  in  every  effort  of  the 
artist  who  possesses  it.  It  implies  that  his  point  of  view 


The  Art  Instinct 


2 1 1 


is  always  special  and  fastidious,  that  he  does  not  look  at 
things  in  a preoccupied  and  matter-of-course  way,  permit- 
ting their  grosser  traits  to  impress  him,  and  inertly  accept- 
ing the  actual  impression  on  the  retina  as  equalling  the 
artistic  suggestion  of  the  object.  Such  a painter  as  M. 
Alfred  Stevens,  for  example,  and  such  a sculptor  as  M. 
Moreau-Vautier,  evince  in  the  highest  degree  the  French 
feeling  for  distinction,  for  what  is  fastidious  in  its  correct- 
ness, for  refinement,  polish,  artistic  decorum.  The  patri- 
cian element  is  as  characteristic  in  plastic  art  as  in  char- 
acter or  manners,  and  the  French  have  an  instinctive 
affinity  for  it.  M.  Moreau-Vautier  stoops  to  trifles  and 
M.  Stevens  sometimes  suffers  his  art  to  exhale  in  mere 
millinery;  but  in  each  instance,  and  in  a host  of  others  of 
which  these  are  simply  typical,  there  is  a highbred,  culti- 
vated dignity  which  confers  on  the  most  frivolous  work  a 
certain  amount  of  unmistakable  distinction. 

We  come  finally,  thus,  to  recognize  elegance  as  the 
characteristic  quality  of  French  art  in  its  widest  scope, 
and  to  perceive  that  the  divinity  which  presides  over  every 
aesthetic  shrine  is  Taste.  In  everything  plastic,  taste  is 
universally  the  French  test  of  excellence.  Offences  against 
taste  are  the  sins  most  shocking  to  the  French  sense; 
obedience  to  its  dictates  is  the  attitude  most  cordially 
approved  by  the  French  mind.  One  can  see  how  dis- 
tinctly national  the  trait  is  by  observing,  not  merely  how 
quickly  elegance  became  the  dominant  note  in  all  artistic 
importation  at  the  Renaissance  epoch — how  even  Prima- 
ticcio  at  Fontainebleau,  for  example,  shows  the  effect  of 
the  new  environment  upon  the  Italian  inspiration — but 
also  how  it  struggles  with  the  grandiose  severity  of  Gothic 
at  Rouen  and  Beauvais;  as  indeed,  centuries  before,  the 
instinctive  feeling  for  it  developed  Gothic  line  and  move- 


212 


French  Traits 


ment  out  of  the  sombre  massiveness  of  Romanesque.  The 
quality  is  as  noticeable  in  every  department  of  effort  as  in 
formal  art.  From  landscape  gardening  to  needlework, 
from  bookbindings  to  placards,  from  the  carefully-consid- 
ered proportions  of  a Neo-grec  palace  to  the  mouldings  on 
a block  of  builder’s  buildings,  from  the  decoration  of  a 
theatre  to  the  arrangement  of  a kitchen-garden,  in  dress, 
in  amusement,  in  household  furnishings,  in  carriages, 
chandeliers,  clocks,  mirrors,  table  services — in  fine,  in 
every  object  produced  by  the  hand  of  man — is  visible  the 
working  of  the  art  instinct  under  the  direction  of  taste  to 
the  end  of  elegance.  In  Paris  every  vista  is  an  artistic 
spectacle.  From  the  point  of  view  of  art  nothing  in  the 
world  equals  the  picture  one  sees  in  looking  toward  the 
Louvre  from  the  Arc  de  l’Etoile — unless  it  be  the  line 
of  the  boulevards,  where  the  buildings,  the  terraces,  the 
shop  windows,  the  people  combine  in  the  production  of  a 
scene  from  which  every  natural  element  except  the  sky 
above  it  has  been  eliminated,  and  which  would  therefore 
be  dazing  and  depressing  if  its  harmony,  its  taste,  its  ele- 
gance did  not  render  it  beyond  all  expression  stimulating 
and  delightful.  The  entire  city  is  a composition,  the 
principle  of  fitness  in  whose  lines  and  masses,  tones,  and 
local  tints  secures  elegance  in  the  ensemble.  Elegance  is 
embodied  by  Paris  as  perfectly  as,  according  to  Victor 
Hugo,  majesty  is  by  Rome,  beauty  by  Venice,  grace  by 
Naples,  and  wealth  by  London. 

Naturally  the  rule  of  taste  results  in  the  tyranny  of  the 
mode.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  is  fashion  so  exacting,  not  only 
in  dress  and  demeanor,  but  in  plastic  art  itself.  Hence 
the  development  of  schools,  the  erection  of  methods  into 
systems,  the  succession  of  romanticists  to  classicists  and  of 
realists  to  both,  the  sequence  of  academic,  pre-Raphaelite, 


The  Art  Instinct 


213 


plein  air , impressionist  notions.  So  that  if  the  mass  of 
French  art  is  too  conventional,  too  little  spiritual,  too  far 
separated  from  nature,  too  material  in  a word,  to  be  con- 
stantly renewed  by  fresh  impulses  operating  in  the  work 
of  original  geniuses  continually  springing  up,  it  neverthe- 
less always  makes  the  most  of  a novel  view,  a fresh  posi- 
tion by  developing,  systematizing,  and  finally  imposing  it 
as  the  mode.  And  however  extraordinary  the  germ  of  the 
mode,  so  severe  is  French  taste  and  so  acute  is  the  French 
sense  for  harmony,  that  in  its  full  flower  any  fashion  is 
sure  to  be  distinguished  more  by  unity  and  measure  than 
by  caprice.  Women’s  bonnets  and  dress,  and  certain 
accompanying  accoutrements,  for  example,  of  a most 
bizarre  character  in  themselves,  are  wholly  transmuted  in 
the  laboratory  of  the  French  modiste  and  couturiere.  In 
this  way  the  inventions  of  English  eccentricity  actually 
acquire,  when  transplanted  to  France,  the  quality  of  ele- 
gance in  which  they  are  most  conspicuously  lacking,  and 
French  taste  and  constructive  art  have  done  for  the  ulster 
and  the  Gainsborough  hat  what  the  Fontainebleau  land- 
scape school  did  for  the  germ  transmitted  to  it  by  Consta- 
ble. Taste,  too,  is  endued  with  that  sanative  property 
which  purges  French  art  of  the  dross  of  positively  ridicu- 
lous and  extravagant  fashions.  A fashion  is  not  in  France 
the  mere  “ fad  ” it  is  in  England  and  with  us.  The  mode 
is  tyrannical,  but  it  is  intelligent  as  well.  There  was  a 
method  and  a measure  in  the  costume  of  the  Incroyables  of 
the  Revolution  and  the  Greek  and  Roman  fantasies  of  the 
Empire,  which  give  them  dignity  in  retrospect  and  must 
have  saved  them  from  that  contemporary  ridicule  of  which 
every  Frenchman  stands  in  terror.  Good  or  bad,  they 
were  styles.  They  were  not  the  ridiculous  results  of  per- 
sonal feeling,  of  whim  and  freak,  intruding  themselves  in 


214 


French  Traits 


Maudle  and  Postlethwaite  fashion  into  a realm  where  rea- 
son and  convention  legitimately  reign. 

Taste,  moreover,  is  universal  in  France.  It  pervades 
all  ranks.  It  dictates  the  blouse  of  the  ouvrier , the  blue 
and  white  composure  of  the  blanchisseuse , the  furnishing  of 
a concierge's  lodge  as  explicitly  as  it  does  the  apparel  of 
the  elegante  or  the  etiquette  of  a salon.  It  banishes  every- 
where raggedness,  dirt,  slovenliness,  disorder.  Having 
classified  people,  so  far  as  possible  it  uniforms  them;  and 
by  uniforming  the  classes  it  unifies  the  whole  which  the 
classes  compose.  Thus  every  one  is  a critic,  every  one 
instinctively  feels,  as  to  any  specific  thing,  whether  or  no 
it  comes  up  to  the  general  standard.  The  first-comer  is  a 
judge  of  art,  as  in  Italy  he  is  of  beauty.  Every  one’s 
instinct  is  trained  under  the  influence  of  taste  all  the  time; 
whichever  way  one  turns  he  receives  some  imperceptible 
education.  Nature,  wilfulness,  untrammelled  self-expres- 
sion, and  spontaneity  are  lacking.  An  English  friend  of 
mine  complained  in  disgust  of  the  placidity  and  tenue  of 
the  immense  crowd  at  Gambetta’s  funeral,  and  of  its  blue, 
white,  gray,  and  black  monotone  of  color.  An  Italian 
prince  or  pauper,  raffint  or  rustic,  throws  the  concen- 
trated charm  of  an  absolute  unconsciousness  into  a look, 
a gesture,  an  attitude,  which  the  happiest  art  can  never 
hope  to  rival.  Perhaps  we  may  maintain  that  there  is  a 
subtile  order  and  harmony  in  the  fortuitous,  the  acci- 
dental, which  escapes  the  ordinary  eye,  and  which  the 
ordinary  artist  does  not  catch.  But  whereas  this  kind  of 
harmony  is  somewhat  insubstantial,  and  one’s  feeling  for  it 
speculative  and  fanciful,  France  presents  the  stimulating 
spectacle  of  an  entire  people  convinced  with  Senancour 
that  the  tendency  to  order  should  form  “ an  essential  part 
of  our  inclinations,  of  our  instinct,  like  the  tendency  to 


The  Art  Instinct 


2I5 


self-preservation  and  to  reproduction,”  and  illustrating  its 
conviction  consciously  and  unremittently  in  every  sphere 
of  life  and  art — making  indeed  an  art  of  life  itself. 

With  this  feeling  impregnating  the  moral  atmosphere, 
with  the  architectonic  spirit  informing  all  activities,  the 
trifling  as  well  as  the  serious,  it  is  no  wonder  that  Paris  is 
the  world’s  art  clearing-house  whither  every  one  goes  to 
perfect,  or  at  least  to  “ consecrate  ” his  talent,  and  the 
centre  of  artistic  production  whence  art  objects  as  well  as 
art  ideas  are  disseminated  throughout  civilization.  Nor  is 
it  surprising  that  even  in  music — for  which  the  French 
have  certainly  no  special  gift,  owing  to  their  lack  of  senti- 
ment, to  the  absence  of  rhythm  and  the  predominance  of 
the  saccade  note  in  the  French  language  and  character — 
Paris  should  have  reached  its  indisputable  eminence. 
What  is  curious,  however,  and  what  constitutes  a singular 
criticism  of  our  century  as  the  “ heir  of  all  the  ages,”  is 
that  the  least  poetic  should  be  the  most  artistic  of  modern 
peoples;  that  France,  in  fact,  which  “ in  art  cares  more  for 
the  true  than  even  for  the  beautiful,”  should  be  the  only 
country  comparable  with  the  Italy  of  the  Renaissance 
and  the  Greece  of  antiquity,  not  only  for  the  prodigious 
amount,  but  for  the  general  excellence  of  her  artistic 
activity. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  PROVINCIAL  SPIRIT 

As  the  French  social  instinct  culminates  in  the  French 
religion  of  patriotism,  French  individual  vanity  becomes 
conceit  whenever  the  Frenchman  contemplates  France  or 
the  foreigner.  The  egotism  which  he  personally  lacks  is 
conspicuously  characteristic  of  himself  and  his  fellows 
considered  as  a nation.  Nationally  considered,  the  people 
composed  of  the  most  cosmopolitan  and  conformable 
individuals  in  the  world  distinctly  displays  the  provincial 
spirit.  Other  peoples  have  their  doubts,  their  misgivings. 
They  take  refuge  in  vagueness,  in  emotional  exaggera- 
tion, in  commonplaces,  in  pure  brag.  We  have,  ourselves, 
a certain  invincibility  of  expectation  that  transfigures  our 
present  and  reconciles  us  to  our  lack  of  a past.  Or,  when 
we  are  confronted  with  evidence  of  specific  inferiority,  we 
adduce  counterbalancing  considerations,  of  which  it  need 
not  be  said  we  enjoy  a greater  abundance  even  than  most 
of  us  are  prepared  on  the  instant  to  recall — “ comfort  and 
oysters  ” were  all  a certain  compatriot  could  think  of  in 
one  emergency,  according  to  a recent  anecdote.  But 
France  is  to  the  mind,  rather  than  exclusively  to  the  feel- 
ing, of  every  Frenchman  as  distinctly  la  grande  nation 
to-day  as  she  was  in  the  reign  of  le  grand  monarque , when 
she  had  fewer  rivals.  The  rise  of  these  has  made  little 
impression  on  her.  M.  Victor  Duruy  begins  his  history 
by  citing  from  “ some  great  foreign  poet,”  of  whose  name 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


217 


he  is  characteristically  ignorant,  the  statement  that  France 
is  “ the  Soldier  of  God.”  Every  Frenchman  echoes  the 
words  of  Stendhal,  who,  nevertheless,  in  general  strikingly 
illustrates  what  Mr.  Spencer  calls  the  “ bias  of  anti- 
patriotism:” “ We,  the  greatest  people  that  has  ever 
existed  — yes,  even  after  1815!”  The  “mission”  of 
France  is  in  every  Frenchman’s  mind.  Her  many  Cas- 
sandras  spring  from  the  universal  consciousness  of  it,  and 
are,  besides,  more  articulate  than  convinced.  Antiquity 
itself,  to  which  it  is  a tendency  of  much  modern  culture  to 
revert  for  many  of  its  ideals,  seems  in  a way  rudimentary 
to  the  French,  who,  even  during  the  First  Empire,  deemed 
themselves  engaged  in  developing,  rather  than  copying, 
classic  models,  from  administration  to  attire.  More  than 
any  other  people  with  whom  comparison  could  fitly  be 
made,  they  seem  ignorant  of  what  is  thought  and  done 
outside  the  borders  of  their  own  territory.  It  is  probable 
that  not  only  the  Germans,  a large  class  of  whom  know 
everything  and  whose  rapacity  of  acquisition  nothing 
escapes,  and  the  English  and  ourselves,  who  are  great 
travellers,  but  persons  of  almost  any  nationality  to  be 
encountered  anywhere  abroad,  are  far  more  familiar  with 
French  books,  French  history,  French  topography,  French 
ways,  than  the  average  intelligent  Frenchman  is  with 
those  of  any  country  but  his  own. 

The  French  travel  less  than  any  other  people.  Less 
than  any  people  do  they  savor  what  is  distinctly  national 
abroad.  Not  only  do  they  emigrate  less;  France  is  so 
agreeable  to  Frenchmen,  and  to  Frenchmen  of  every  sta- 
tion, that  it  is  small  wonder  they  are  such  pilgrims  and 
strangers  abroad,  and  tarry  there  so  short  a time  unless 
necessity,  compel  them.  But,  as  one  travels  to  become 
civilized,  and  as  in  French  eyes  civilization  reaches  per- 


2 1 8 


French  Traits 


fection  only  in  France,  the  chief  motive  for  travel  is  lack- 
ing to  them.  “ We  need  to  study,  not  to  travel.  A 
travelled  Frenchman  is  no  more  civilized  than  his  stay- 
at-home  compatriots — which  is  not  the  case  elsewhere. 
Besides,  nowadays,  you  know,  we  have  photographs  ” — 
naivete  like  this  it  is  not  uncommon  to  hear  in  Paris.  “ Le 
Temps,”  probably  on  the  whole  the  best  journal  in  the 
world,  rarely  has  occasion  to  refer  to  the  United  States 
without  falling  into  some  error  of  fact,  such  as  its  Ameri- 
can analogue  would  be  incapable  of  making  in  regard  to 
France,  though  the  latter  shows  considerably  less  sympa- 
thetic disposition  to  appreciate  French  currents  of  feeling 
and  thought  than  “ Le  Temps  ” does  in  the  converse  case. 
Every  American  traveller  has  encountered  the  Frenchman 
who  believed  that  the  Civil  War  was  a contest  between 
North  and  South  America,  and  has  been  astonished  by  his 
general  intelligence,  which  is  wholly  superior  to  that  of 
our  people  of  an  analogous  ignorance.  The  entire  French 
attitude  toward  foreigners  strikes  us  as  curiously  con- 
scious and  sensitive.  In  Paris,  certainly,  the  foreigner, 
hospitably  as  he  is  invariably  treated,  is  invariably  treated 
as  the  foreigner  that  he  is.  His  observations  about 
French  politics,  manners,  art,  are  received  with  what 
slight  impatience  civility  permits;  and  often,  indeed,  they 
are  of  an  exasperating  absurdity.  He  is  made  to  perceive 
that  all  these  things  are  distinctly  matters  of  French  con- 
cern. The  Frenchman  feels  too  acutely  the  privilege  of 
being  a Frenchman  to  extend  the  favor,  even  by  courtesy, 
to  the  stranger  within  his  gates.  He  has  lawTs  which 
authorize  him  to  expel  from  French  territory  foreigners 
who  displease  him.  When  the  little  American  daily,  “ The 
Morning  News,”  treated  the  Parisians  to  some  American 
“ journalistic  enterprise  ” about  the  healthfulness  of  Nice, 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


219 


some  years  ago,  there  was  an  amusing  outcry  for  its  imme- 
diate exile  as  a foreign  publication.  When  the  late  King 
Alfonso  passed  through  Paris  after  accepting  in  Germany 
a colonelcy  of  Uhlans,  President  Grevy  was  obliged  to 
apologize  for  the  conduct  of  the  Paris  mob,  which  hissed 
and  hooted  him  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  French 
civility,  which,  nevertheless,  is  proof  against  everything 
but  chauvinism.  Accurately  estimated  as  Wagner  is  by 
the  leading  French  musicians,  and  avid  as  are  the  Paris- 
ians of  whatever  is  new  in  art,  Paris  is  so  distinctly  an 
entity  and  as  such  takes  itself  so  seriously,  that  it  would 
not  listen  to  “ Lohengrin  ” because  the  author  of  “ Lo- 
hengrin ” had,  nearly  twenty  years  before,  insulted  it  after 
a manner  which,  one  would  say,  Paris  would  be  glad  to 
condone  as  natural  to  German  grossierte ’ and  therefore  as 
unworthy  of  remembrance.  The  artists  of  the  Salon  lose 
a similar  opportunity  of  showing  themselves  superior  to 
provincialism  of  a particularly  gross  kind,  in  visiting  the 
aesthetic  primitiveness  of  our  Congressmen  on  the  individ- 
ual American  painter,  who  is  already  only  too  impotently 
ashamed  o.f  it. 

The  provincial  spirit  born  of  an  exaggerated  sense  of 
nationality  has  nowhere  else  proved  so  fatal  to  France, 
perhaps,  as  in  closing  her  perceptions  to  one  of  the  very 
greatest  forces  of  the  century.  The  modern  spirit  is  illus- 
trated in  many  ways  more  signally  and  splendidly  by  the 
French  than  by  any  other  people,  but  they  have  notably 
missed  its  industrial  side.  Industrialism  may  almost  be 
said  to  play  the  chief  part  in  the  modern  world,  to  be  one 
of  those  influences  which  contribute  the  most  to  national 
grandeur  and  individual  importance.  Beside  its  triumphs, 
those  of  the  military  spirit  are  surely  beginning  to  seem 
fleeting  and  ineffective.  Standing  armies  were  never  so 


220 


French  Traits 


colossal  and  never  cost  so  much,  but,  despite  the  fact  that 
no  one  can  foresee  the  manner  of  their  decline,  it  is 
already  plain  that  the  system  which  they  support  must 
ally  itself  with  industrialism,  or  perish  before  it;  which  is 
only  an  extended  way  of  putting  Napoleon’s  remark  that 
“ an  army  travels  on  its  belly.”  Democracy  may  have 
as  much  use  for  force  as  feudalism  had,  but  it  is  only  the 
more  clear  for  this  that  the  heaviest  battalions  are  to  be 
on  the  side  of  the  particular  democracy  which  best  appre- 
hends and  applies  the  principles  of  peaceful  industry  in 
their  widest  scope  and  exactest  precision.  If  there  be 
anything  in  these  inconsistent  with  eminence  in  literature, 
art,  natural  science,  diplomacy,  philosophy,  with  the  ideal, 
in  short,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  ideal.  It  is  the  fittest 
to  survive  that  does  survive.  But  it  is  far  more  probable 
that  what  is  generally  called  materialism  is  often  only  so 
called  because  the  science  of  it  has  not  yet  been  discov- 
ered. The  future  will  certainly  account  nationality  a 
puissant  and  beneficent  force  measurably  in  proportion  as 
the  nationality  of  the  future  imbues  itself  with  the  spirit 
of  industrialism,  which  at  the  present  time  appears,  super- 
ficially at  least,  so  unnational,  so  cosmopolitan.  Witness 
already  not  only  the  wealth  of  Anglo-Saxondom,  but  the 
way  in  which  this  wealth  serves  to  promulgate  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  ideals,  imperfect  as  these  are. 

Now,  at  a time  when  the  foundations  of  modern  society 
were  being  laid,  France  was  neglecting  the  practice,  if  not 
the  philosophy,  of  industrialism.  Only  in  a philosophical 
and  speculative  way — and,  indeed,  one  may  add  an  ama- 
teur way — did  she  concern  herself  with  it.  She  was  wholly 
given  over  to  the  things  of  the  mind,  of  the  heart,  of  the 
soul,  examining  the  sanctions  of  every  creed,  every  con- 
ception, every  virtue  even,  and  so  preoccupied  with  ency- 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


221 


clopaedism  that  she  forgot  colonization  entirely.  She 
threw  away  Canada,  which  she  had  administered  with  a 
sagacity  wholly  surpassing  that  of  the  English  adminis- 
tration of  the  then  loyal  America.  She  allowed  herself  to 
be  driven  from  India.  She  made  only  a desultory  effort 
to  develop  her  possessions  in  South  America.  While 
Turgot  was  studying  his  reforms,  writing  political  econ- 
omy, discovering  that  needless  wages  were  in  reality  but 
alms,  meditating  and  administering  with  a brilliance  and 
power  that  place  him  at  the  very  head  of  French  states- 
manship, the  English  Turgot  was  plundering  India.  While 
the  French  were  pondering  and  discussing  the  Contrat 
Social,  the  English  were  putting  money  in  their  purse, 
with  which  to  fight  the  Napoleonic  wars  and  restore  the 
ancient  regime  at  the  Congress  of  Vienna.  By  force  of 
intelligence,  of  impatience  with  sophisms,  of  passion  for 
pure  reason,  by  detestation  of  privilege  and  love  for 
humanity,  feudality  in  France  was  being  undermined; 
while  by  force  of  energy,  of  strenuous,  steadfast,  and 
heroic  determination,  Hastings  was  enabling  England,  by 
condoning  infamy,  to  substitute  wealth  for  institutional 
reform. 

The  result  is  very  visible  at  the  present  day,  and  com- 
plicates the  French  outlook  not  a little.  French  credit  is 
still  high,  but  French  finances  give  the  wisest  French 
economists  melancholy  forebodings.  France’s  commerce 
and  manufactures  are  very  considerable,  but,  unlike  her 
agriculture,  they  are  so  in  spite  of,  rather  than  because 
of,  French  institutions.  The  settlement  of  the  land  ques- 
tion followed  naturally  upon  the  adoption  of  the  Rights  of 
Man,  whereas  the  Revolution  left  the  questions  of  trade 
and  finance  untouched  in  their  provincial  seventeenth- 
century  status.  Immigration  and  geographical  situation 


222 


French  Traits 


go  far  to  atone  for  the  un-American  stupidity  of  our 
tariff,  but  the  same  provincial  spirit  works  much  greater 
provincial  results  in  France,  where  no  good  luck  in  the 
industrial  field  counterbalances  the  effects  of  subsidies  and 
protection.  The  nation  is  at  once  the  most  industrious 
and  the  least  industrial  of  the  great  nations.  Notable 
exceptions  there  are;  but  not  only  do  these  thrive  at  the 
expense  of  the  mass,  but,  these  included,  the  business  of 
the  nation  seems,  by  comparison  with  that  of  England 
and  ourselves,  exaggeratedly  retail,  where  indeed  traces  of 
its  activity  are  not  altogether  lacking.  An  Englishman 
notes  at  once  the  tremendous  depleting  cost  of  consuming 
only  native  manufactures.  An  American  remarks  a sur- 
prising absence  of  business  of  all  kinds,  except  in  the  lux- 
uries and  decorations  of  life.  The  smallness  of  the  scale, 
the  universal  two  prices  for  everything,  the  restriction  of 
speculation  to  a small  army  of  professed  speculators,  the 
way  in  which  the  trade  in  articles  de  Paris  and  nouveautes 
dominates  in  importance  that  in  grain,  cotton,  groceries, 
and  provisions,  the  outnumbering  of  drays  and  trucks  by 
handcarts  and  cabs,  the  immense  preponderance  of  little 
shops  over  what  we  are  really  etymological  in  calling 
“ stores  ” — these  things  seem  provincial  not  to  our  philis- 
tinism so  much  as  to  our  ideality. 

It  is  very  well  to  be  at  the  head  of  civilization,  to  repre- 
sent most  perfectly  of  all  nations  “ the  humanization  of 
man  in  society,”  but  you  must  manage  to  live,  to  endure; 
and  to  endure  you  must  take  note  of  the  forces  at  work 
around  you,  you  must  see  the  way  the  world  is  going. 
You  must  not  at  the  present  day  be  so  exclusively  devoted 
to  Geist,  however  justifiably  Mr.  Arnold  might  sing  its 
praises  to  his  own  countrymen,  as  to  let  your  commercial 
instincts  atrophy.  Such  costly  fiascos  as  the  Tonquin 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


223 


expedition  are  the  price  paid  by  France  for  that  uncom- 
mercial character  betrayed  in  the  use  of  the  term  “ article 
d' export"  for  whatever  is  cheap  and  poor.  At  a time 
when  every  European  nation  is  colonizing  in  search  of 
markets,  success  is  not  to  be  won  by  exporting  brum- 
magem. Curiously  enough,  even  in  the  domain  of  art, 
where  the  French  are,  one  would  say,  thoroughly  com- 
mercial (as  well  as,  of  course,  admirable  executants),  a 
critic  in  “ L’Art  ” rebukes  the  provincial  French  disre- 
gard of  foreign  art,  by  begging  his  countrymen  to  be  at 
least  lenient  enough  to  examine  before  disapproving,  and 
asking  them  how  they  would  like  to  be  judged  solely  on 
the  art  products  they  themselves  send  abroad.  The 
French  belief  that  foreigners  can  be  made  to  buy  an 
article  in  art  or  industry  that  Frenchmen  would  reject  is, 
indeed,  directly  associated  with  their  conviction  that  in  all 
activities  you  can  only  be  amusing  to  them,  never  instruct- 
ive. Although  they  welcome  the  mere  strangeness  which 
other  peoples  resent  and  which  they  find  curious  and  intel- 
lectually interesting,  practically  they  find  no  more  utility 
in  exchanging  ideas  than  dry  goods  with  you.  And  not 
only  do  they  lose  in  national  consideration  in  this  way, 
but,  to  note  a by  no  means  unimportant  detail,  they  miss 
the  development  of  character  that  a national  genius  for 
industrialism  in  its  large  aspects  stimulates  in  individual 
citizens.  The  amassing  of  money  is  apt  to  make  misers 
of  Frenchmen.  There  is  little  amassing  on  a large  scale 
that  is  not  known  and  described  as  avarice.  There  are 
no  Vanderbilts.  Their  laws  securing  the  distribution  of 
wealth  stimulate  sordidness  instead  of  speculation.  For 
speculation  the  mass  of  the  people  substitute  the  lottery, 
which  is  certainly  a provincial  form  of  business  risk. 
Holders  of  successful  tickets  almost  never  dissipate  their 


224 


French  Traits 


winnings,  but  employ  them  sensibly  and  economically. 
Petty  gambling  is  nearly  universal,  but  its  scale  is  usually 
parochial.  The  gambling  at  the  Paris  Bourse  is,  of 
course,  colossal  in  amount,  but  in  its  area  of  influence 
it  is  restricted.  There  are  comparatively  few  “ lambs 
shorn  ” there,  and  the  temptation  to  take  a “ flyer  ” in 
the  market  does  not  assail  the  average  citizen. 

Moreover,  the  necessity  for  an  immense  army  keeps  the 
military  spirit  in  fashion.  Every  citizen  passes  through 
the  caserne , and  retains  something  of  its  feeling.  Duels, 
fine  uniforms,  contempt  of  civilians,  superciliousness 
toward  “ trades-people  ” survive  from  the  middle-age 
predominance  of  the  noblesse , through  this  necessity,  with 
a persistence  that  strikes  our  industrialized  sense  as 
puerile.  Democratic  as  France  is,  she  is  still  as  feudal,  as 
provincial  in  these  respects,  as  oligarchical  or  despotic 
societies  are  in  others.  Material  as  the  community  is  in 
many  ways,  in  these  it  is  still  steeped  in  the  antiquated 
ideal  of  that  age  of  chivalry  whose  very  existence  we  have 
arrived  at  doubting.  The  truculence  of  Richelieu’s  time 
has  been  softened,  but  a statesman  is  still  at  the  mercy  of 
a spadassin,  if  the  latter  conceives  his  “ honor  ” wounded 
in  the  course  of  parliamentary  polemics.  The  sentiment 
which  sustains  the  soldier  against  the  avocat  is  wide- 
spread, and  does  not  differ  greatly,  except  in  refinement, 
from  the  similar  provincialism  of  our  Southern  fire-eaters. 

French  provincialism,  however,  is  exhibited  rather  in  a 
restricted  field  of  knowledge  than  in  a narrow  attitude  of 
mind.  It  proceeds  from  ignorance  rather  than  prejudice. 
Unlike  the  provincialism  of  any  other  people,  it  is  thor- 
oughly open-minded.  It  is  traditional  rather  than  per- 
verse. It  is  not  arrogant  but  limited  — not  so  much 
sceptical  of  foreign  merit  as  conscious  of  its  own.  Its 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


225 


development  has  taken  place  amid  competitive,  rather 
than  isolated,  conditions,  and  it  shows  the  mark  of  the 
continental  struggle  instead  of  insular  evolution;  its  con- 
ceit is  derived  from  a too  exclusive  contemplation  of 
French  accomplishments,  not  from  that  vague  and  senti- 
mental exaggeration  with  which  unchecked  emotion 
accentuates  self-respect.  Its  view  of  the  universe  is  con- 
spicuously incomplete,  but  so  far  as  it  goes  its  vision  is 
admirably  undistorted.  In  a word,  even  French  provin- 
cialism is  remarkably  candid  and  rational.  It  seems  for 
this  reason  particularly  crass  to  us,  because  its  exhibition 
is  marked  by  so  much  sense  and  so  little  sentiment, 
because  a lack  of  emotional  delicacy  leads  to  bald  and, 
so  to  speak,  scientific  statement  of  French  merits  and 
attainments.  We  could  sympathize  much  more  readily 
with  pure  brag.  The  absence  of  buncombe  is  distinctly 
disagreeable  to  us.  The  palpable  sincerity  of  its  air  of 
placid  exactitude  we  find  difficult  to  support.  We  could 
forgive  it  anything  more  readily  than  its  frank  composure. 
The  story  of  the  London  cockney  who  found  the  French 
a singular  people  because  they  called  “ bread  "pain,  and 
replied  to  a comrade,  who  observed  that  calling  pain 
“ bread  ” was  just  as  singular,  “ Oh,  well,  you  know  it  is 
bread,”  illustrates  rather  the  French  than  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  order  of  provincialism.  The  Englishman  would  be 
preoccupied  with  the  contemptible  character  of  the  bread 
itself.  The  reason  why  the  Germans  are  such  good  lin- 
guists, says  the  French  Calino,  is  because  “ they  already 
know  one  foreign  language.”  His  English  correlative 
esteems  foreign  languages  “ lingo.”  A young  and  ob- 
servant Methodist  clergyman  whom  I once  saw  in  Rome, 
whither  he  had  been  sent  by  his  Connecticut  congregation 
in  search  of  health  and  recreation,  was  evidently  getting 

15 


226 


French  Traits 


none  of  either  because,  in  the  presence  of  Raphael  and 
Michael  Angelo,  he  was  perpetually  and  painfully  remind- 
ing himself,  as  well  as  others,  that  “ a fine  action  is  finer 
than  a fine  picture,”  and  that  the  Italians  were  so  con- 
temptible a people  as  to  make  it  natural  to  infer  from 
their  distinction  in  them  something  particularly  debasing 
in  the  influence  of  the  fine  arts.  It  would  be  hard  to  find 
a French  priest  in  our  day  thus  perplexed  and  tormented 
by  the  fascination  of  pure  oppugnation,  and  well-nigh 
impossible  to  encounter  a Frenchman  of  any  kind  so  per- 
suaded that  to  differ  morally  from  himself  was  ipso  facto 
witness  of  degradation. 

The  travelling  Frenchman  rarely  exhibits  this  pedantic 
order  of  contempt  for  the  foreign  phenomena  with  which 
he  comes  in  contact.  He  often  misconceives  and  misin- 
terprets them  most  absurdly,  and  the  serenity  of  his  supe- 
riority on  such  occasions  has,  first  and  last,  afforded  a 
good  deal  of  amusement.  The  newspaper  letters  of  the 
French  correspondents  are  sometimes  as  good  reading  on 
account  of  the  picturesqueness  of  their  blunders  as  for 
any  other  reason.  The  conceit  is  colossal.  But  it  arises 
from  ignorance  and  misconception,  from  a certain  help- 
lessness in  the  presence  of  what  is  unfamiliar  that  fairly 
paralyzes  even  Gallic  curiosity,  and  throws  the  victim 
back  on  his  own  nation’s  eminence,  with  whose  justifica- 
tion he  is  much  more  at  home.  It  is  never  combined  with 
feeling,  and  generally  contents  itself  with  such  compari- 
sons as  observation  suggests.  Our  pedants,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  constantly  occupied  with  inferences  of  the  most 
fundamental  nature  drawn  from  the  most  trivial  circum- 
stances. In  the  case  of  the  travelling  Briton,  the  view  of 
novel  objects  seems  actually  to  distil  dislike.  Encounter- 
ing abroad,  for  example,  a strange  costume,  the  French- 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


227 


man  finds  it  in  bad  taste,  the  Englishman  conceives  a 
contempt  for  the  wearer.  Both  positions  are  equally 
unwarrantable,  very  likely,  but  it  is  clear  that  the  pro- 
vincialism of  the  latter  only  is  pedantic.  We  are  all 
familiar  with  the  budget  of  opinions  about  foreigners 
with  which  our  kindest  and  gentlest  travellers  return  from 
Europe:  the  filth  of  Italy,  the  stupidity  of  the  Germans, 
the  insincerity  of  the  French,  the  ridiculousness  of  the 
English,  the  atrocity  of  the  Spanish  cuisine,  their  ultra- 
radical conviction  of  American  superiority  in  all  these 
instances  being  based  on  the  simple  fact  of  difference. 
No  French  traveller  looks  at  foreign  phenomena  in  this 
way,  and  though  his  conviction  of  French  superiority  may 
be  as  unsound  at  bottom,  yet,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned,  it 
is  more  intelligent,  less  exclusively  sentimental,  as  well  as 
less  uncharitable — one  is  tempted  to  add,  less  unchristian. 

The  explanation  is  that  the  French  provincial  spirit,  like 
other  French  traits,  is  thoroughly  impersonal.  The  indi- 
vidual, everywhere  subordinated  to  the  state  and  the  com- 
munity, appears  himself  curiously  unrelated  to  the  very 
object  of  his  characteristic  adoration.  Personally  speak- 
ing, his  provincialism  is  impartial.  He  does  not  admire 
France  because  she  is  his  country.  His  complacence  with 
himself  proceeds  from  the  circumstance  that  he  is  a 
Frenchman;  which  is  distinctly  what  he  is  first,  being  a 
man  afterward.  And  his  pride  in  France  by  no  means 
proceeds  from  her  production  of  such  men  as  he  and  his 
fellows,  but  from  what  France,  composed  of  his  fellows 
and  himself,  accomplishes  and  represents.  One  never 
hears  the  Frenchman  boast  of  the  character  and  quality 
of  his  compatriots,  as  Englishmen  and  ourselves  do.  He 
is  thinking  about  France,  about  her  different  gloires,  about 
her  position  at  the  head  of  civilization.  His  country  is  to 


228 


French  Traits 


him  an  entity,  a concrete  and  organic  force,  with  whose 
work  in  the  world  he  is  extremely  proud  to  be  natively 
associated,  without  at  the  same  time  being  very  acutely 
conscious  of  contributing  thereto  or  sharing  the  responsi- 
bility therefor.  He  is,  accordingly,  a marvel  of  candor  in 
discussions  relating  to  France,  of  which  in  detail  he  is  an 
unsparing  and  acute  critic.  One  wonders  often  at  his 
admissions,  which  seem  drastic,  not  to  say  fundamental. 
We  forget  that  he  always  has  France  in  reserve — that 
organic  conception  which  every  Frenchman  holds  so 
firmly,  owing  to  the  closeness  of  texture  in  the  national 
life  since  the  nation’s  birth.  In  discussions  of  this  kind 
his  attitude  is  very  well  expressed  by  a fine  mot  of  the 
Due  d’Aumale,  who,  during  the  Bazaine  trial,  when  the 
inculpated  marshal  exclaimed,  in  justification  of  his  trea- 
son, that  there  was  no  longer  any  government  left,  any 
order,  any  authority  to  obey,  said,  “ II  y avait  encore  la 
France,  monsieur!  ” The  national  life  of  England  has  been 
nearly  as  long  and  no  doubt  as  glorious  as  that  of  France; 
but,  owing  to  its  looseness  of  texture,  to  the  incomplete 
way  in  which  it  has  absorbed  the  individual,  the  individual 
himself  seems  to  make  its  dignity  and  eminence  subjects 
of  constant  concern.  And  so  much  personal  emotion  is  in 
his  case  associated  with  this  preoccupation,  that  nowhere 
more  conspicuously  than  in  his  chauvinism  does  he  illus- 
trate the  disposition  of  Dr.  Johnson,  “ who,”  says  Emer- 
son, 44  a doctor  in  the  schools,  would  jump  out  of  his 
syllogism  the  instant  his  major  proposition  was  in  danger, 
to  save  that  at  all  hazards.”  Similarly  with  ourselves. 

In  national  criticism  the  Frenchman,  on  the  other  hand, 
never  thinks  his  major  proposition  in  the  least  danger. 
This  perhaps  argues  an  intenser  national  conceit,  a more 
explicit  provincialism,  but  it  permits  a certain  syllogistic 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


229 


freedom  which  an  Anglo-Saxon  can  only  envy.  Mr. 
Arnold  notes  this  characteristic  as  common  to  the  conti- 
nentals generally  in  his  inimitable  essay  entitled  “ My 
Countrymen.”  “ It  makes  me  blush,”  he  says,  “ to  think 
how  I winced  under  what  the  foreigners  said  of  England; 
how  I longed  to  be  able  to  answer  it;  how  I rejoiced  at 
hearing  from  the  English  press  that  there  was  nothing  at 
all  in  it,  when  I see  the  noble  frankness  with  which  these 
foreigners  judge  themselves.”  But  I think  this  frankness 
is  especially  characteristic  of  the  French,  and  it  is,  from 
our  point  of  view,  not  a little  singular  that  it  should  be 
accompanied  by  the  most  intense  chauvinism.  “ Modesty 
is  doubt,”  says  Balzac,  and  the  French  thus  judge  them- 
selves so  frankly,  very  likely,  because  they  are  lacking  in 
that  modesty  which  the  screaming  of  our  eagle  and  the 
roar  of  the  British  lion  attest  as  an  Anglo-Saxon  trait. 
At  all  events,  the  French,  with  their  excessively  rational 
way  of  looking  at  things,  esteem  modesty  a defect  rather 
than  a quality,  both  in  nations  and  individuals,  and  rarely 
use  the  word  except  in  the  enumeration  of  feminine 
charms,  or  in  the  extended  sense  of  “ unpretentiousness  ” 
— as,  for  example,  a modest  savant. 

And  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  French  have  a partic- 
ular justification  for  their  ignorance  of  foreign  national 
worth  and  accomplishment  which  people  of  other  coun- 
tries are  without.  On  principles  which  they  comprehend, 
that  is  to  say,  such  principles  as  state  action,  organic 
development,  scientific  study  of  special  problems,  co-oper- 
ation, and  centralization  — every  principle,  in  fact,  in 
accordance  with  which  the  common  activities  of  an  entire 
nation  are  to  be  directed — France  presents  as  a nation  a 
far  more  definite  and  concrete  figure  than  any  other. 
Englishmen,  Italians,  Americans  may  excel  in  a hundred 


230 


French  Traits 


ways,  but  they  are  not  excellences  to  which  England,  Italy, 
America  concretely  contribute  as  nations.  In  the  way  of 
direct  national  accomplishment,  the  work  of  France  is 
certainly  more  palpable  than  that  of  other  nations.  We 
build,  for  example,  an  astonishing  number  of  miles  of  rail- 
way every  year,,  but  what  we  mean  by  “ America  ” is  no 
more  associated  with  it  than  it  is  with  the  levying  of  a 
thirty  per  cent,  duty  on  foreign  art.  M.  de  Lesseps’s 
success  or  failure  is,  on  the  other  hand,  intimately  and 
directly  French.  It  is  by  no  means  altogether  because 
French  national  accomplishment  is  almost  always  a gov- 
ernment affair,  whereas  we  make  “ private  enterprise  ” 
the  great  protagonist  of  our  national  drama.  It  is  be- 
cause in  France  the  government  is  in  all  matters  of  this 
kind  so  thoroughly  representative,  so  wholly  a popular 
agent.  The  result  is  that  “ France  ” is  far  more  real  to  a 
Frenchman’s  intelligence  than  “ America  ” is  to  ours, 
however  much  our  subjective  sentiment  may  atone  for  the 
lack  of  national  palpability.  Of  “ private  enterprise,”  of 
the  attainment  of  magnificent  results  through  pure  senti- 
ment, through  a loose  social  organization,  through  a 
consistent  inconsistency,  the  Frenchman  has  no  notion. 
These  are  principles  of  which  he  does  not  comprehend  the 
workings.  But,  as  I say,  the  results  of  those  principles 
whose  workings  he  does  comprehend  are  far  more  consid- 
erable in  France  than  elsewhere.  In  the  line  of  social  and 
political  problems  whose  solution  depends  upon  the  con- 
scious and  precise  regulation,  ordering,  and  development 
of  an  entire  society,  French  experimentation  has,  in  vari- 
ety, scope,  and  thorough-going  audacity,  been  so  far  in 
excess  of  that  of  other  modern  peoples  that  it  seems  to 
him  idle  to  examine  the  history  of  the  latter.  Since  the 
Revolution  and  the  adoption  of  the  Code  Napoleon,  for 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


231 


instance,  the  phenomena  marking  the  gradual  rise  of  the 
English  democracy  naturally  seem  to  him  interesting 
mainly  from  a humanitarian  point  of  view,  and  only  indi- 
rectly instructive.  And  as  for  studying  the  details  of  our 
social  system,  to  take  another  popular  example,  whereby 
American  relations  between  men  and  women  are  secured, 
he  necessarily  feels  that  this  would  be  rather  curious  than 
profitable  to  him,  because  of  his  conviction  that  these  rela- 
tions, if  they  are  what  our  admirers  maintain,  are  owing 
more  to  the  favor  of  Heaven  than  to  that  human  ordering 
upon  which  his  own  society  must  inevitably  and  exclu- 
sively continue  to  depend. 

This  justification  for  French  provincialism  appears 
especially  clear  in  the  matter  of  French  ignorance  of 
foreign  languages.  Such  ignorance  is  nearly  universal  in 
France,  and  the  French  have  greatly  suffered  from  it  both 
in  peace  and  war.  They  are  now  making  a heroic,  but 
probably  not  very  systematic  or  successful,  effort  to  rem- 
edy the  evil.  It  is  one  of  the  “ lessons  ” of  the  late  con- 
flict with  Prussia,  like  the  lesson  of  mobilization  and  full 
rosters.  But  certainly  one  reason  of  their  linguistic  lim- 
itedness is  the  circumstance  that  for  them  the  acquisition 
of  foreign  languages  is  in  the  nature  of  a pure  accomplish- 
ment; and  for  accomplishments  as  such  the  French  care 
very  little.  In  this  respect  their  attitude  is  far  less  pro- 
vincial than  our  polyglot  passion  for,  in  Mr.  Arnold’s 
happy  phrase,  “ fighting  the  battle  of  life  with  the  waiters 
in  foreign  hotels.”  They  view  language  as  a distinct 
expression  of  definite  thought,  and  for  this,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  they  think  French  suffices — chronicles  what  of 
that  has  been  expressed.  Had  they  the  sentimental,  the 
poetic,  the  religious  temperament,  they  would  be  drawn 
toward  an  effort  to  appreciate  English  poetry,  which  is  of 


232 


French  Traits 


course  absolutely  untranslatable.  But  not  to  possess  the 
poetic  temperament  is  not  of  itself  to  be  provincial;  and, 
lacking  it,  an  acquaintance  with  English  would  teach  the 
French  less  than  we  are  apt — provincially — to  imagine 
that  would  be  new  to  them.  Even  of  English  poetry, 
there  has  been  no  happier  general  eulogy  than  that  of 
Voltaire,  and  despite  the  provinciality  of  the  recent 
French  rendering  of  “ Hamlet  ” (where,  beside  the  dis- 
tortion of  ideas,  M.  Dumas’s  authority  lends  itself  to  such 
ludicrous  errors  as  the  confusion  of  “ canon  ” and  “ can- 
non ”)  no  one  has  characterized  Shakespeare  more  dis- 
criminatingly than  M.  Henry  Cochin,  whose  commentary 
is  worth  a volume  of  Ulrician  profundity.  But,  poetry 
aside,  all  those  problhnes  de  la  vie , which  are  so  much  more 
definitely  treated  in  prose,  are  treated  in  French  so  copi- 
ously as  in  a measure  to  justify  French  preoccupation 
with  French  literature,  which,  indeed,  is  familiar  to  and 
studied  by  Frenchmen  as  English  rarely  is  among  our- 
selves. It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  even  Goethe,  the 
incarnation  of  the  cosmopolitan  spirit,  except  as  in  part 
the  product  of  French  influences;  and  the  fact  that  the 
French  can  show  no  one  who  used  German  as  Heine  used 
French,  is  not  so  much  witness  of  their  provincial  atti- 
tude, as  of  the  unprovincial  spirit  of  the  French  language. 
French  has  more  concrete  and  crystallized  things  to  tell 
us  than  any  other  modern  tongue,  and  the  majority  of 
people  can  get  only  distinct  things  from  a language  that 
is  not  their  own.  That  is  why  to  our  average  man  French 
is  more  profitable  than  English  is  to  the  majority  of 
Frenchmen.  Only  subtle  and  delicate  minds,  such  as  are 
in  any  country  the  rare  exceptions,  catch  the  characteristic 
aroma,  the  peculiar  perfume,  the  racial  point  of  view  of  a 
foreign  literature.  No  one  has  more  discriminatingly 


The  Pr ovine ial  Spirit 


233 


expressed  the  value  of  studying  foreign  literatures  than 
Doudan  in  calling  it  a means  of  awakening  one’s  own 
national  genius;  “it  is,’’  says  he,  “ like  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  which  gave  Saunderson  the  notion  of  scarlet.’’ 
For  the  cosmopolitanism  evinced  in  studying  Ollendorf, 
Doudan  would  certainly  entertain  a very  slight  esteem. 

In  fine,  the  peculiarity  of  the  French  provincial  spirit  is 
that,  for  the  most  part,  its  manifestations  are  national  and 
not  individual.  Toward  other  nations  abstractly,  and 
toward  the  people  of  other  nations  in  the  concrete,  it  is 
exhibited  in  very  nearly  the  proportion  in  which  it  is 
aroused  by  the  exclusive  contemplation  and  knowledge  of 
France  itself.  But  its  reaction  upon  the  individual  in  his 
own  environment  is  scarcely  apparent.  Where  neither 
France  nor  the  foreigner  is  directly  in  question,  ^provin- 
cial is  precisely  the  epithet  for  the  Frenchman’s  mental  atti- 
tude and  processes.  The  Frenchman  makes  so  much  of  his 
position  as  a member  of  a society  whose  texture  is  extremely 
close,  he  employs  his  relations  to  his  surroundings  in  such 
constant  and  salutary  fashion,  that  personally  he  avoids 
nearly  every  mark  of  the  provincial  spirit.  Fie  has  little 
of  its  narrowness,  its  self-concentration,  its  unremittent 
experimentation,  its  confusion  of  relative  with  absolute 
values.  It  is,  for  example,  especially  a mark  of  the  pro- 
vincial spirit  to  take  one’s  self  too  seriously.  To  take 
one’s  self  too  seriously  is  the  distinguishing  trait  at  once 
of  the  pedant  and  the  amateur — the  person  who  attaches 
an  excessive  importance  to  trifles,  and  the  person  who 
attacks  lightly  matters  of  great  dignity  and  difficulty;  two 
archetypes,  one  may  say,  of  the  provincialism  illustrated 
by  Anglo-Saxons.  At  home,  certainly,  however  he  may 
appear  abroad,  the  Frenchman  takes  himself  far  less  seri- 
ously than  the  Englishman  or  the  American  is  apt  to  do 


234 


French  Traits 


under  sufficient  provocation,  unrestrained  as  both  are  by 
either  the  dread  or  the  danger  of  that  ridicule  which  oper- 
ates with  such  salutary  universality  in  France.  Beside 
the  pedant  and  the  amateur,  the  fat  is  conspicuously  a 
cosmopolitan,  or,  at  least,  a cockney  product.  The 
badaud  himself  is  a very  catholic-minded  character;  he 
sinks  himself  in  his  surroundings.  Note  the  essential  dif- 
ference, from  the  point  of  view  of  provincialism,  between 
him  and  the  prig — especially  that  latest  and  least  attract- 
ive variety  of  the  species  by  which  at  present  our  own 
society  is  infested,  and  from  which  France  is  free — the 
prig  bent  on  self-improvement.  An  environment  whose 
cosmopolitanism  is  a pervasive  force,  instead  of  mainly  a 
mere  lack  of  positive  nationality,  cannot  develop  a being 
of  whom  it  is  the  cardinal  characteristic  that  his  constant 
discipline  and  effort  are  exercised  uniformly  at  the  expense 
of  others.  So  perfectly  are  the  amateur  and  the  pedant 
fused  in  him  that  the  most  trivial  conversation  is  in  his 
eyes  an  opportunity;  he  takes  notes  for  self-education  on 
the  most  sacred  and  solemn  occasions;  at  dinner-parties 
he  is  studying  etiquette,  at  the  whist-table  he  is  improving 
his  game,  at  church  he  is  exercising  his  memory,  in  a 
neighbor’s  house  or  a picture  gallery,  his  taste;  he  has  no 
intimacy  too  great  for  him  to  employ  in  practising  his 
voice,  his  gestures,  his  carriage,  his  demeanor — his  whole 
environment,  in  fact,  animate  and  inanimate,  friend  and 
foe,  he  remorselessly  sacrifices  to  his  implacable  purpose 
of  educating  himself,  whatever  may  happen.  And  that  he 
may  advance  in  virtue  as  in  wisdom  he  lets  slip  no  oppor- 
tunity of  educating  others.  No  description,  indeed,  of  a 
society  which  lacks  him  can  be  more  vivid  and  positive  to 
a society  which  possesses  him  than  the  mention  of  his 
absence.  One  infers  at  once  in  such  a society  a free  and 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


235 


effortless  play  of  the  faculties,  a large,  humorous,  and 
tolerant  view  of  one’s  self  and  others,  leisure,  calm, 
healthful  and  rational  vivacity,  a tranquil  confidence  in 
one’s  own  perceptions  and  in  the  intelligence  of  one’s 
neighbors — characteristics  which,  very  likely,  have  in  turn 
their  weak  side,  but  which  indicate  the  urban,  the  metro- 
politan, the  mundane  attitude  of  a community  wherein 
men  rub  against  and  polish  each  other,  and  exclude  the 
village  or  conventual  ideal  of  a laborious  effort,  careless 
of  the  present,  forgetful  of  the  past,  its  ardent  gaze  fixed 
on  a vague  recompense  in  an  indefinite  future  to  the  suc- 
cessful contestant  in  a rigorous  competitive  examination. 

Religion,  too,  has  contributed  as  largely  in  France  to 
the  absence  of  the  provincial  spirit  as  it  has  furthered  the 
social  instinct  by  tending  to  social  concert  and  social 
expansion.  Not  only,  that  is  to  say,  has  religion  in 
France  exercised  the  influence  peculiar  to  Catholicism, 
but  Catholicism  has  there  been  without  a rival.  Protes- 
tantism exists.  The  Reformed  Church  is  indeed  supported 
by  the  state  on  a perfectly  proportionate  equality  with 
Catholicism,  but  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  has  not  been  its 
seed,  and  it  does  not  really  count.  The  leading  Paris 
newspaper  is  Protestant;  many  of  the  leading  men  are  of 
Huguenot  descent  and  cherish  Protestant  traditions.  But 
these  themselves  discuss  every  question  from  a Catholic 
stand-point,  and  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  society  is 
not  homogeneously  Catholic.  Catharine  de’  Medici  is  in 
this  respect  as  much  the  creator  of  modern  France  as 
Henry  VIII.  is  of  modern  England  or  Philip  II.  of  modern 
Spain.  It  is  so  far  from  easy  to  be  content  with  her  work 
that  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  seems  to  me  the 
greatest  misfortune  that  has  ever  befallen  France.  Com- 
pared with  it  the  Prussian  invasion  of  1870  and  the  loss  of 


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Alsace-Lorraine  seem  insignificant;  when  we  think  of  the 
France  of  Coligny’s  time  and  its  potentialities,  the  France 
of  to-day,  even  post-revolutionary  France,  is,  in  certain 
directions,  a disappointment.  But  it  is  not  to  be  denied 
that  to  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  and  the  Revoca- 
tion of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  are  attributable  the  religious 
homogeneousness  of  French  society,  and,  consequently, 
its  composure,  its  serenity,  its  absence  of  the  provincial 
spirit  in  one  of  the  profoundest,  and  most  sacred,  and 
most  influential  of  human  concerns. 

The  humanizing  effect  of  unity  in  religion  is  one  of 
those  phenomena  which  have  only  to  be  mentioned  to  be 
immediately  appreciated.  The  attitude  of  superstition 
itself  is  really  far  less  provincial  than  the  attitude  of 
scepticism.  The  one  is  traditional  and  social  in  its  nat- 
ure, the  other  of  necessity  solitary  and  personal.  Even 
superstition  implies  a placid  and  serene  sympathy  between 
its  victim  and  his  environment.  Sophocles,  Virgil,  Raph- 
ael, Shakespeare,  Erasmus,  Goethe — how  distinct  is  the 
urbanity,  the  felicity  of  rounded  and  complete  harmony 
which  the  mere  mention  of  these  names  reminds  us  they 
illustrate  in  common!  How  different  it  is  from  the  notion 
called  up  by  the  mention  of  Luther,  Calvin,  Bunyan, 
Knox,  Byron,  Carlyle!  Apollo  is  one  type  and  Achilles  is 
quite  another.  To  fight  it  out  for  one’s  self  in  the  sphere 
of  religion;  to  forge  one’s  own  credo  out  of  materials  pain- 
fully selected  from  the  workshops  of  the  ages;  not  to  feel 
one’s  self  sustained  and  supported  by  human  sympathy  in 
the  supreme  human  concern;  to  assume  the  objector’s 
attitude,  to  place  one’s  self  at  the  sceptic’s  view-point,  to 
particularize  laboriously  and  sift  evidence  with  scrupulous 
care  in  a matter  so  positive,  so  attractive,  and  so  universal 
— how  can  this  fail  to  stimulate  in  one  the  provincial  tem- 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


237 


per,  the  provincial  spirit?  The  social  instinct  recoils  in 
the  face  of  such  a prospect. 

The  tendency  of  unity  is  to  magnify  the  worship,  of 
diversity  to  magnify  the  philosophy,  of  religion.  How 
many  scores  of  conscientious  and  piously-disposed  young 
men  at  the  moment  when  “ choice  is  brief  and  yet  end- 
less ” cut  themselves  off  entirely  from  the  former  because 
they  cannot  make  up  their  minds  clearly  as  to  the  latter! 
Every  one’s  experience  has  acquainted  him  with  the  phe- 
nomenon of  “ truly  religious  souls  ” debarred  from  the 
communion  of  saints,  not  to  say  impelled  toward  the 
communion  of  sinners,  by  what  Renan  calls  “ the  narrow 
judgments  of  the  frivolous  man.”  The  kindred  phenome- 
non resulting  from  the  narrow  and  frivolous  judgments  of 
the  truly  religious  soul  itself,  is  scarcely  less  frequent.  In 
New  England,  at  any  rate,  where  the  old  Arian  heresy 
redivivus  has  produced  such  luxuriant  intellectual  fruit,  it 
is  not  an  infrequent  occurrence  to  find  the  anxious  seat 
filled  with  candidates  carefully  conning  the  different 
“ confessions,”  the  mind  concentrated  on  the  importance 
of  an  intelligent  and  impartial  selection,  preliminary  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  soul’s  highest  need.  “ The  experi- 
ence of  many  opinions  gives  to  the  mind  great  flexibility 
and  fortifies  it  in  those  it  believes  the  best,”  says  Joubert. 
Nothing  can  be  truer  and  nothing  more  just  than  the  high 
praise  that  has  been  given  to  this  remark.  But  it  is  surely 
applicable  to  philosophy  rather  than  to  religion,  and  if 
applied  to  religious  philosophy  it  should  be  read  in  con- 
junction with  that  other  and  profoundly  spiritual  saying 
of  Joubert:  ‘‘It  is  not  hard  to  know  God,  provided  one 
will  not  force  one’s  self  to  define  him;”  or  this:  “ Make 
truth  lovely,  and  do  not  try  to  arm  her.” 

The  great  word  of  religion  is  peace,  and  controversy 


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here,  however  practical  it  may  be,  is  indisputably  provin- 
cial. Controversy  has  become  so  characteristic  of  our 
sectarianism,  it  is  believed  in  so  sincerely,  it  is,  in  effect, 
so  necessary  as  a protection  against  the  insidiousness  of 
superstition,  that  one  distrusts  its  universal  efficacy  at  his 
peril.  No  one,  failing  to  see  how  this  must  be  so,  can  fail 
to  observe  that  it  is  in  fact  so  when  he  contemplates  many 
of  the  manifestations  of  the  controversial  spirit  in  which 
our  society  abounds.  A not  infrequent  spiritual  experi- 
ence, for  example,  is  this:  a person  of  inbred  piety,  infi- 
nitely attracted  by  the  beauty  of  holiness,  comes  in  con- 
tact with  the  scientific  and  scrutinizing  spirit  of  the  age. 
The  unity  of  nature,  the  universal  identity  of  her  under- 
takings, which,  as  Thoreau  says,  are  “sure  and  never 
fail,”  make  a profound  impression  on  him.  He  is  unable 
to  credit  or  conceive  of  their  overruling  to  the  end  that 
spiritual  truth  may  be  attested  by  thaumaturgy.  He  pays 
dearly  for  his  inability.  It  excludes  him  from  fellowship 
with  spirits  a thousand  times  more  akin  to  his  own  than 
he  can  find  outside  the  doors  guarded  by  the  flaming 
sword  of  an  inflexible  credo.  He  begins,  nevertheless,  to 
adjust  himself  to  his  position.  Soon  he  proceeds  to  vaunt 
it,  out  of  sheer  self-respect.  His  heart  becomes  hardened; 
his  intellect  freezes;  finally  he  finds  a haven  in  a society 
for  ethical  culture,  whose  cardinal  tenet  it  is  that  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  too  simple  for  application  to  the 
immensely  diversified  needs  of  our  complex  modern  soci- 
ety. He  may  not  have  lost  his  own  soul,  but  he  has  cer- 
tainly not  gained  the  whole  world,  nor  any  considerable 
part  of  it.  The  world  stamps  him  and  his  society  as 
essentially  provincial,  and  turns  with  relief  to  the  fellow- 
ship of  quarters  wherein  the  beautiful  and  the  good  stand 
in  no  terror  of  the  tyranny  of  truth.  From  this  variety  of 


The  Provincial  Spirit 


239 


provincialism,  at  least,  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew 
and  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  have  done 
much  to  spare  France,  both  in  her  religion  and  her  irre- 
ligion. 

It  would,  indeed,  be  very  difficult  to  persuade  a French- 
man visiting  America  of  our  good  faith  in  charging  him 
with  provincialism  in  any  regard.  Every  contrast  with 
things  French  which  meets  his  eye  must  enforce  his 
sense  of  our  rudimentary  and  undeveloped  condition.  He 
could  not  fail  to  find  our  theatres,  some  of  our  churches, 
our  conception  of  his  interest  in  cemeteries  and  penal 
institutions,  the  transparent  dresses  of  our  women  on 
undress,  and  their  high-necked  “ gowns  ” on  dress,  occa- 
sions, our  diversified  tastes  in  the  matter  of  feminine  bon- 
nets and  masculine  beards,  our  bathing  costumes  and 
manners,  our  lack  of  police  efficiency,  our  cuisine , the 
attire  and  conduct  of  that  immense  class  among  us  in 
whom  gentility  is  uneasily  nascent,  and  our  categorical 
and  serious  defence  of  these  and  scores  of  other  peculiari- 
ties, exactly  to  be  characterized  by  the  epithet  provincial. 
He  would  probably  be  unabashed  even  by  our  “ men  of 
general  information  ” — a product  in  which,  perhaps,  we 
may  defy  competition.  He  would  certainly  maintain  that 
in  France  there  are  more  people  who  have  an  academic 
and  critical  knowledge  of  “life”  and  character,  people 
whose  judgments  of  the  innumerable  and  immensely 
varied  phenomena  of  life  and  character,  of  art  and  sci- 
ence, are  independent  without  being  capricious.  “ The 
range  within  which  these  judgments  are  restricted  seems 
limited  to  you,”  he  would  assert,  “ mainly,  perhaps, 
because  yours  is  extended  into  the  region  of  triviality. 
Prices  of  every  sort  from  pictures  to  mess  pork,  railway 
time-tables,  tinkering,  horse  and  dog  lore,  stitches,  sports, 


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the  mysteries  of  plumbing,  old  furniture,  pottery  marks, 
in  fact,  all  that  desultory  and  fragmentary  ‘ information  ’ 
with  which  your  as  yet  unsystematized  struggle  with  nat- 
ure seems  to  encrust  so  many  among  you,  is  what,  on  the 
contrary,  we  regard  as  really  limited  and  limiting.  And, 
in  general,  a crystallized  and  highly  developed  commu- 
nity seems  provincial  to  the  nomad  and  the  adventurer, 
whether  he  be  a Bedouin  or  a Wall  Street  broker,  because 
it  has  traditions,  local  pride,  public  spirit,  and  organic 
relations;  because,  great  or  small,  it  is  and  stands  for 
something  at  once  definite  and  complex,  and  is  not  merely 
a part  of  the  amorphous  universe  where  nothing  is  settled, 
where  there  is  no  code  to  systematize  the  general  scram- 
ble, and  where  industry  and  enterprise  thrive  at  a tremen- 
dous cost  to  the  ensemble , and  substitute  a startling  social 
chiaro-oscuro  for  the  just  pictorial  values  of  civilization. 
Paris  is  ‘ provincial  * in  the  same  way  as  your  oldest  and 
maturest  city  is.  Like  Boston,  it  seems  ‘ provincial  ’ to 
the  New  Yorker  and  the  Chicagoan  because  it  is  so  com- 
pletely organic,  because  it  is  so  distinctly  a community 
instead  of  being  merely  a piece  broken  off  the  wide,  wide 
world.  The  desert  of  Sahara  is  not  ‘ provincial;’  as  Bal- 
zac said,  ‘ It  is  nothing  and  yet  everything,  for  God  is 
there  and  man  is  not!’  You  Americans  strike  us  as  unpro- 
vincial, I may  observe,  mainly  in  this  Sahara  sense.” 

At  the  same  time — we  may,  I think,  legitimately  rejoin 
— the  catholic  and  cosmopolitan  spirit  which  leads  Emer- 
son to  find  not  provincialism  but  “ characteristic  nation- 
ality ” in  Madame  de  Stael’s  peremptory  ” Conversation, 
like  talent,  exists  only  in  France,”  is  probably  rarer  in 
France  than  in  an  environment  where  there  is,  if  not  more 
of  God,  at  any  rate  less  of  man. 


CHAPTER  IX 


DEMOCRACY 

“ Horace  tells  us,”  says  Gouverneur  Morris,  in  a letter 
from  Paris  to  the  Comte  de  Moustier,  French  Ambassador 
to  the  United  States,  “ that  in  crossing  the  seas  we  change 
our  climate,  not  our  souls.  But  I can  say  what  he  could 
not,  that  I find  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  a strong  resem- 
blance to  what  I left  on  the  other — a nation  which  exists 
in  hopes,  prospects,  and  expectations.”  This  was  in  1789, 
and  though  of  course  each  country  has  to-day  fewer  expec- 
tations to  realize  than  it  had  then,  an  American  in  France 
must  still  be  impressed  by  the  same  correspondence  of 
national  attitude — by  the  vivacious  and  confident  way  of 
looking  forward  to  the  future  which  the  French  people, 
and,  perhaps,  the  French  people  alone,  share  with  our- 
selves. Our  own  animation  is  partly  due,  no  doubt,  to 
the  fact  which  Carlyle  pointed  out,  namely,  that  we  have 
“ a great  deal  of  land  for  a very  few  people.”  It  is  due 
also  to  our  belief  in  the  American  character.  But  it 
resembles  the  analogous  French  elation  in  being  also 
based  on  confidence  in  democratic  institutions.  Demo- 
cratic institutions,  however,  may  differ  widely,  and  it  is 
undoubtedly  the  very  considerable  difference  between  our 
democracy  and  that  of  the  French  that  is  responsible  for 
our  very  popular  error,  which  assumes  that  their  institu- 
tions are  not  really,  and  in  so  far  as  they  work  easily  and 
with  promise  of  permanence,  democratic  institutions  at 
16 


242 


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all.  That  this  error  is  a little  ridiculous  does  not,  of 
course,  prevent  it  from  being  very  widespread  and  very 
deeply  rooted.  There  is  probably  no  country  in  which 
the  French  Revolution  is  less  understood  than  it  is  in 
America. 

Its  ideality  first  of  all,  I think,  distinguishes  French 
democracy  from  our  own.  Democracy  is  a creed,  that  is 
to  say,  with  the  French — a positive  cult  rather  than  a 
working  principle,  a standard,  general  test  of  particular 
measures.  It  is  held  consciously  and  with  conviction.  It 
provokes  enthusiasm.  Its  devotees  have  had  to  die  for  it. 
It  is  not  merely  accepted  as  a matter  of  course,  due  origi- 
nally to  the  triumph  of  circumstances  over  national  char- 
acteristics, as  was  measurably  the  case  with  us.  Our  gov- 
ernment, it  is  true,  was,  as  General  Collins  aptly  says, 
“ the  child  of  revolution  nurtured  on  philosophy.”  But 
it  is  perfectly  certain  that,  but  for  Jefferson’s  French  phi- 
losophy, called  then  as  now,  demagogic  Quixotism,  we 
should  have  had  as  short-lived  a democratic  republic  as 
Hamilton  prophesied  and  endeavored  to  compass.  Our 
next  epoch  made  a nation  of  us,  and  crystallized  the  spirit 
of  nationality  in  democratic  form.  But  nothing  is  more 
significant  of  the  discredit  into  which  democracy,  as  an 
ideal,  has  fallen  among  us  than  the  way  in  which  this 
formative  period  of  the  nation’s  growth  has  been  obscured 
by  the  struggle  with  slavery  which  immediately  followed 
it,  and  during  which  democracy,  as  an  ideal,  almost  wholly 
disappeared.  Their  interest  in  the  preservation  of  the 
rights  of  States  allied  the  slaveholding  aristocracy  with 
democratic  philosophy,  and  the  alliance  was  disastrous. 
Democratic  philosophy  nearly  perished.  It  ceased  to  be 
propagated  among  ” the  best  people,”  as  they  are  called. 
It  lost  its  hold  on  the  mass  of  intelligence,  on  the  news- 


Democracy 


243 


papers,  on  the  college  graduates,  on  all  those  who  had  not 
an  especial  capacity  for  keeping  their  heads  in  the  midst 
of  the  excitement  of  a great  national  crisis,  the  right  set- 
tlement of  which  was  infinitely  more  important  than  the 
keeping  of  one’s  head.  Inter  arma  silent  political  princi- 
ples as  well  as  laws.  And  though  the  laws  may  resume 
their  sway  and  supreme  courts  reverse  their  decisions  after 
the  clash  of  arms  has  definitely  died  away,  political  princi- 
ples that  have  once  lost  currency  have  irretrievably  lost 
credit  also.  Great  men  may  restore  to  them  their  popular 
validity.  Had  Abraham  Lincoln  lived,  perhaps  the  entire 
political  feeling  of  the  country  might  have  been  different. 
But  crises  only  produce  great  men,  and  now-a-days  Lin- 
coln’s lofty  maxim  has  really  become  transformed  into 
“ government  of  the  people,  for  the  people,  by  ‘ the  best 
people,’  ” as  the  political  ideal  of  many  of  our  purest 
patriots;  though  it  may  be  questioned  if  in  this  form  it 
will  “make  the  tour  of  the  world.’’  We  have  in  large 
measure  forgotten  our  heroic  philosophical  genealogy. 
Our  English  character  has  come  to  the  surface  again,  and 
necessarily  philosophy  gives  place  to  casuistry. 

Our  democracy,  indeed,  was  not,  to  begin  with,  any- 
thing like  “ the  child  of  revolution  nurtured  by  philoso- 
phy,’’ which  the  French  democracy  is.  We  only  suffered 
from  political  tyranny.  We  did  not  rise  also  from  social 
subjection.  Mainly  we  had  at  the  outset  merely  the 
independent  spirit,  the  native  Anglo-Saxon  instinct  for 
freedom — not  the  sentiment  of  equality  and  a philosophi- 
cal belief  in  the  essential  worthiness  of  man  as  man. 
Gouverneur  Morris,  in  1790,  prefers  the  English  constitu- 
tion to  the  French,  and  one  has  only  to  think  what  the 
English  constitution,  in  1790,  was,  to  perceive  the  signifi- 
cance of  such  a preference.  And  Morris  was  by  no  means 


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an  unrepresentative  American.  And  the  French  constitu- 
tion of  1790  was  made  by  the  upper  classes.  It  was 
through  self-assertion  that  we  triumphed,  whereas  the 
French  wron  their  autonomy  through  the  universal  appeal 
of  principle.  And  they  came  thus  to  love  the  abstraction 
through  which  they  conquered — at  first  fanatically,  and 
now  for  a long  time  rationally;  whereas  the  democratic 
creed  never  had  the  universal  validity  of  an  abstraction  to 
us,  except  to  our  philosophic  minds,  like  Jefferson,  for 
example,  and  through  them  to  our  Democratic  party. 
Neither  Federalist  nor  Whig  ever  thought  of  it  as  univer- 
sal at  all. 

Nor  have  their  successors  since.  The  great  mass  of  our 
people  undoubtedly  believe  in  democratic  institutions  for 
Americans,  though  undoubtedly  an  important  portion  of 
our  “ wealth  and  intelligence  ” thinks  our  own  altogether 
too  democratic.  But  many  even  of  those  whose  politics 
are  not  merely  traditionary,  would  probably  echo  the  gen- 
eral Anglo-Saxon  conviction,  that  institutions  in  them- 
selves, democratic  or  other,  are  unimportant,  compared 
with  national  character;  that  there  is  no  abstractly  good 
kind  of  government,  and  that  every  people  should  have 
the  kind  its  own  racial  constitution  and  its  degree  of 
development  call  for.  We  did,  to  be  sure,  make  one  of 
the  very  boldest  democratic  experiments  that  any  society 
ever  made  during  the  Reconstruction  period,  but  it  hardly 
proceeded  from  our  faith  in  universal  suffrage  as  a civil- 
izing agent;  it  was  due  rather,  to  use  an  extenuating 
epithet,  to  political  diplomacy,  and  it  was  really  undemo- 
cratically  imposed  on  an  unwilling  section  by  an  imperious 
one.  Probably  the  most  popular  cry  now  audible  in 
strictly  American  political  circles,  is  for  the  regulation  of 
immigration  and  naturalization,  in  order  that  “ ignorance 


Democracy 


M5 


and  poverty  ” may  be  fitted  for  the  suffrage,  to  the  end 
that  property  may  be  more  secure,  and  “ hidden  and  for- 
bidden forces  ” less  powerful.  Sound  as  this  may  be,  it 
is  a long  way  from  the  democratic  ideal  as  held  and  illus- 
trated by  France.  It  is  not  consistent  with  an  enthusi- 
astic subscription  to  the  gospel  of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fra- 
ternity. Its  tendency  is  rather  in  the  direction  of  such  a 
democracy  as  that  of  slaveholding  Athens  (so  far  as  a 
parallel  may  be  drawn  between  a nation  of  sixty  millions 
of  people  and  a community  “ at  most  a subprefecture  ”), 
in  which  the  democratic  ideal  found  expression  mainly  in 
an  equality  of  the  elite. 

In  fine,  it  must  be  evident  to  all  close  observers  that 
the  ideal  of  government  by  “ the  best  people  ” is  growing 
with  us.  It  is  by  no  means  yet  triumphant,  and  in  many 
instances  it  is  so  closely  associated  with  a pharisaical 
habit  of  mind,  that  very  likely  our  many  publicans  and 
sinners,  who  believe  in  democratic  institutions  at  least  for 
themselves,  and  as  satisfying  their  individual  instincts  of 
independence,  will  contrive  to  keep  it  permanently  under. 
The  “masses”  are  solidifying,  perhaps,  as  fast  as  the 
“ classes  ” crystallize,  and  whereas  it  used  to  be  our  boast 
that  our  cities  had  no  “ populace,”  and  our  country  dis- 
tricts no  “ peasantry,”  we  shall  possibly  have  enough  of 
both  to  prevent  the  establishment  of  the  ideal  of  govern- 
ment by  “the  best  people” — by  the  people,  that  is  to 
say,  who  are  doing  their  reckless  utmost  toward  the  pro- 
duction of  the  American  proletariat  they  so  abjectly 
dread.  Of  course  in  America,  by  “ the  best  people,”  we 
do  not  yet  mean  the  richest;  we  mean  very  generally  the 
most  intelligent.  Mr.  Lowell,  for  example,  who  coura- 
geously patronizes  democracy  in  England,  and  with  equal 
courage  castigates  it  at  home,  affirms  that  “ the  duty  of 


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French  Traits 


the  more  intelligent  is  to  govern  the  less  intelligent.” 
It  is  a matter  mainly  of  color,  perhaps,  but  I own  to  a 
feeling  that  when  Mr.  Lowell,  and  indeed  most  of  our 
publicists  who  have  cut  themselves  adrift  from  the  aristo- 
cratic party  on  questions  of  morals  and  taste  rather  than 
of  political  principles,  praise  the  democratic  creed,  what 
they  are  really  thinking  of  is  not  ” Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity,”  but  the  New  England  town-meeting  of  earlier 
and  better  days.  The  moment  the  milieu  becomes  hetero- 
geneous and  uncolonial,  their  democracy  seems  really  to 
vanish  in  distrust  of  that  average  man,  respect  for  whom 
is  the  corner-stone  of  the  French  democracy.  Whenever, 
as  in  large  cities,  elaborate  political  machinery  with  its 
attendant  evils  becomes  necessary,  it  is  significant  how 
instinctively  their  minds  turn  to  disfranchisement  as  a 
remedy.  No  one  has  eulogized  Lincoln  more  sympatheti- 
cally than  Mr.  Lowell,  exercising  his  noble  poetic  faculty. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  fancy  the  man  who  said  ” the  Lord 
must  love  the  common  people,  he  made  so  many  of  them,” 
laying  much  stress  upon  the  ” duty  of  the  intelligent  to 
govern  the  unintelligent.”  And  undoubtedly  Mr.  Lowell’s 
crisp  prose  just  now  appeals  to  “ the  intelligent  ” among 
us  far  more  cogently  than  the  looser  democratic  feeling  of 
Lincoln.  Mow  many  of  our  writers,  whose  philosophic 
utterances  have  any  credit,  would  echo  La  Bruyere’s 
famous  ” Faut-il  opter?  Je  veux  etre  peuple.” 

Our  democracy  indeed  shows  its  unideal  quality  in  no 
wise  more  clearly  than  in  the  exaltation  thus  implied  of 
character,  national  as  well  as  individual,  over  institutions. 
We  like  our  institutions,  in  cases  where  we  do  not  accept 
them  with  amused  resignation,  because  they  suit  us,  because 
they  give  us  personal  independence,  because  we  can — some 
of  us — grow  rich  under  them;  and  not  at  all  because  per  se 


Democracy 


247 


we  admire  institutions,  are  attracted  by  them,  and  believe 
in  their  universality.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  French 
notion  that  civilization  means  the  improving  of  character 
by  institutions.  Mankind  tends  naturally  to  inequality. 
Inequality  tends  naturally  to  establish  itself.  Inequality  is 
undemocratic  and  uncivilized.  The  only  bulwark  against 
it  in  the  long  run  is  the  careful,  systematic,  and  minute 
formulation  of  political  principles  in  the  light  of  reason, 
aided  by  experience,  and  their  universal  application  as 
institutions  to  the  society  subject  to  their  sway.  To  use 
a fanciful,  but  exact,  figure,  whereas,  thus,  we  regard 
institutions  as  antiseptic,  the  French  consider  them  as 
therapeutic.  Our  democracy  is  a working  hypothesis, 
establishing  the  lines  through  which  national  and  indi- 
vidual character  may  work  out  their  salvation.  French 
democracy  is  a positive  and  highly  differentiated  system, 
designed  for  direct  and  active  agency  in  the  securing  of 
social  well-being  and  political  progress.  Each  has,  of 
course,  its  peculiar  peril.  For  the  lack  of  institutions 
tending  to  secure  equality — as  directly  as  excise  laws  tend 
to  promote  temperance,  anti-lottery  laws  to  prevent  gam- 
bling, anti-usury  laws  to  prevent  extortion,  and  strict 
divorce  laws  to  promote  chastity — our  democracy  is  con- 
stantly menaced  by  the  growing  heterogeneity  of  our  soci- 
ety, the  geometrically  increasing  power  of  wealth,  culture, 
position.  For  the  lack  of  the  free  play  of  individual 
expansiveness  and  independence  inherent  in  systematic 
and  effective  organization,  the  French  social  democracy 
is  in  constant  danger  of  losing  its  political  freedom.  And 
the  effect  of  the  loss  of  political  freedom  on  social  democ- 
racy is  one  of  constant  and  subtle  attrition. 

I must  say,  however,  I think  the  French  are  more  con- 
scious of  their  danger  than  we  are  of  ours.  Indeed,  this 


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particular  one  I have  mentioned  is  the  only  political  peril 
concerning  which  we  seem  just  now  to  be  displaying  no 
anxiety  whatever.  Our  pessimists  are  optimistic  on  this 
point.  But  the  experience  of  France,  in  the  difficulties  of 
securing  and  sustaining  democracy,  has  been  considerably 
greater  than  our  own.  And  this  circumstance  has  doubt- 
less done  much  to  strengthen,  as  well  as  to  sober,  the 
ideality  with  which  its  mainly  philosophic,  instead  of 
mainly  practical  origin,  endued  it  at  the  outset.  And  the 
particular  practical  form  which  this  ideality  takes  on  dis- 
tinguishes French  democracy  from  ours,  in  even  greater 
measure  than  does  the  positive  spirit  from  which  it  pro- 
ceeds. Its  great  practical  distinction,  in  a word,  is  that  it 
is  at  once  popular  and  authoritative.  We  are  accustomed  to 
believe  the  two  qualities  incompatible.  Authoritative  gov- 
ernment is  inseparable  in  our  minds  from  what  is  called 
paternal  government,  and  we  feel  that  if  government  with 
us  should  show  any  particular  authoritativeness,  even  in 
the  way  of  greater  efficiency  of  administration,  it  would 
infallibly,  to  just  that  extent,  lose  its  popular  character. 
But  when  the  popular  character  of  a government  is 
secured,  not  by  the  cordial  initiative  of  independent  indi- 
viduals inspired  by  intelligently  understood  interest,  but 
by  a natural  enthusiasm  for  the  democratic  ideal,  rationally 
interpreted  and  vigorously  imposed,  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
it  may  be  as  authoritative,  or  even  as  intolerant,  as  it 
finds  it  effective  to  be,  without  really  sacrificing  anything 
of  its  essentially  popular  nature.  No  one  can  have  lived 
in  France,  at  all  events,  since  the  establishment  of  the 
present  Republic,  without  observing  how  popular  the  gov- 
ernment is.  Every  one  talks  politics.  People  everywhere 
are  politically  alive,  however  remiss  they  may  be  about 
voting.  One  perceives  a general  interest  in  active  self- 


Democracy 


249 


government.  The  difference  between  the  political  atmos- 
phere in  this  respect  and  that  of  England,  for  example,  is 
very  noticeable  to  an  American  sense,  and,  so  far  as  its 
influence  operates,  makes  an  American  feel  far  more  at 
home  than  in  English  society,  where  the  political  talk  is 
almost  exclusively  sentimental  and  apt  to  be  confined  to 
the  personal  character  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  the  national 
traits  of  the  Irish.  The  press  is  as  fundamentally  demo- 
cratic as  the  English  press  is  fundamentally  contemptuous 
of  popular  ideas.  It  is,  moreover,  quite  as  free.  Personal 
privacy  is  the  only  ground  it  may  not  invade.  One  notes 
that,  whereas  English  liberty,  up  to  the  Reform  bills  at 
any  rate,  was  individual  rather  than  popular,  the  individ- 
ual left  to.  do  as  he  liked,  even  to  the  point  of  “ going  to 
the  devil  his  own  way,”  with  no  voice  in  the  control  of 
the  society  of  which,  indeed,  it  was  not  recognized  that  he 
formed  a part  in  the  absence  of  substantial  titles  to  recog- 
nition; and,  whereas,  even  now,  the  voice  many  individ- 
uals have  is  practically  a ludicrously  feeble  one,  and,  to 
their  own  stolid  perceptions,  often  scarce  worth  the  pains 
of  uttering  at  all,  except  for  the  purpose  of  “ saying 
ditto  ” to  their  respective  Mr.  Burkes,  French  liberty, 
as  it  exists  at  present,  wrorks  in  entire  and  efficient  har- 
mony with  the  social  instinct. 

The  French  canaille  itself  enjoys  much  more  considera- 
tion than  does  ours,  and  the  fact  contributes  powerfully  to 
the  democratic  homogeneity  of  society.  It  is  significant 
that,  when  such  a born  aristocrat  as  M.  Jules  Simon  has 
occasion  to  make  a contemptuous  allusion  to  the  canaille , 
he  feels  compelled  instantly  to  add:  “ Don’t  be  alarmed, 
I mean  la  sainte  ca?iaille . ” Certainly  it  would  occur  to 
no  English,  and  I doubt  if  to  any  American,  publicist  of 
M.  Jules  Simon’s  temperament  and  convictions,  to  apolo- 


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gize  sarcastically  for  calling  the  canaille  the  canaille.  And 
the  reason  is  that  in  France  the  canaille  has,  in  common 
with  every  other  class  of  society,  received  the  advantages 
of  long  evolutionary  differentiation,  so  that  it  has  of 
necessity  developed  the  qualities  which  create  companion- 
ability.  Its  coarseness  and  grossness  are  accordingly  not 
shocking,  whereas,  with  us,  the  grossness  and  coarseness 
are  so  great  as  to  mislead  us  into  a most  unchristian  con- 
tempt for  those  who  show  them,  and  cause  us  to  imagine 
that  what  is  really  ignorance  of  the  essential  moral  and 
spiritual  similarity  of  people,  is  a witness  of  a refined 
nervous  organization.  1’he  Frenchman’s  nerves  not  being 
thus  exasperated,  do  not  thus  lead  him  to  mistake  snob- 
bishness for  sensitiveness.  And  being  in  this  way,  and  for 
this  reason,  less  contemned,  even  the  canaille  in  trance 
becomes  inevitably  less  contemptible  than  the  canaille  else- 
where. being — for  cause — better  liked,  it  becomes  in  turn 

more  likable.  It  is  intelligent  and  conscious,  and  alive  to 
its  own  interests.  It  has  to  be  reckoned  with  politically. 
It  counts  as  a force.  It  is  not  merely  intractable  and 
turbulent.  It  attempts,  at  least,  to  give  its  rioting  an  air 
of  revolutionary  intention.  It  has  even  then  a distinctly 
political  motive,  and  the  idea  of  expending  its  force  in 
mere  wanton  marauding,  after  the  Trafalgar  Square  order, 
would  seem  absurd  to  it.  Its  demonstrations  at  their 
worst  are  directed  against  what  it  believes  a tyrannical 
government ; those  who  take  part  in  them  talk  about  cap- 
turing the  Hotel  de  Yille,  or  marching  on  the  Palais  Bour- 
bon; they  do  not  smash  club  windows,  and  attack  casual 
pedestrians,  and  loot  shops.  In  brief,  the  canaille  is  seri- 
ous. It  is  very  likely  more  dangerous  for  this  reason  to 
the  established  order,  but  it  certainly  is  a more  healthful 
social  element,  from  the  democratic  point  of  view,  than  is 


Democracy 


25* 


either  the  supine  and  submissive  understratum  of  German, 
or  the  “ brutalized  lower  class  ” of  English,  civilization. 

The  attitude  toward  it,  therefore,  of  that  part  of  the 
community  whose  property  and  position  give  it  contrary 
interests,  is  correspondingly  different  from  the  attitude  of 
the  upper  classes  elsewhere.  Elsewhere  the  upper  classes’ 
endeavor  is  to  keep  it  down.  In  France  the  analogous 
endeavor  is  better  described,  in  vulgar  phrase,  as  an 
attempt  to  keep  it  off.  In  France  property  and  position 
are  simply  engaged  in  the  attempt  to  hold  their  own  amid 
the  social  warfare  of  clashing  interests,  according  to  the 
laws  of  the  struggle  for  existence.  They  are  not  seeking 
to  impose  themselves  on  the  less  fortunate  and  less  power- 
ful. They  merely  sustain  their  cause,  their  side,  in  the 
general  democratic  parliament.  Permanent  domination  is 
a dream  they  certainly  have  not  cherished  since  the  abdi- 
cation of  Charles  X.  But  what  is  still  more  important  to 
note  is  that  these  extremes  apart — the  inheritors  of  the 
old  aristocratic  tradition  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  canaille, 
so  called,  on  the  other — the  rest  of  the  nation  explicitly 
objects  to  a warfare  of  opposing  interests,  and  cherishes 
the  ideal  of  serving  the  interests  of  the  entire  people  as  a 
people.  “ Le  Temps,”  for  example,  is  never  tired  of 
preaching  this  doctrine.  The  burden  of  its  daily  message 
is  that  it  is  unpatriotic  to  legislate  in  favor  of  any  class, 
even  of  the  least  privileged;  that  to  be  a truly  popular 
government  the  Republic  should  avoid  espousing  the 
cause  of  the  poor  against  the  rich  as  strictly  as  that  of 
the  rich  against  the  poor;  that  every  class  of  the  commu- 
nity has  its  right  to  equal  consideration,  and  that  the  rule 
of  the  masses  for  the  masses  is  as  illogical  republicanism 
as  that  of  the  classes  for  the  classes  would  be.  This  is  a 
lesson  which  “ Le  Soleil  ” on  the  one  hand,  and  “ L’ln- 


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tra.nsigea.nt  ” on  the  other,  no  doubt  find  it  hard  to  learn; 
but  save  in  America,  certainly  nowhere  else  is  it  preached 
with  the  same  general  acceptance,  and  *nowhere  else  is  its 
practice  so  well  secured  by  thoroughly  positive  as  well  as 
thoroughly  popular  institutions.  We  have  an  immense 
advantage  from  the  democratic  standpoint  in  having  no 
classes  in  the  European  sense,  and  of  a constant  and  easy 
passing  from  one  into  the  other  of  the  two  we  do  have. 
So  far  as  classes,  therefore,  are  concerned  we  .are  more 
homogeneous,  taken  in  the  mass,  and  politically  consid- 
ered, than  any  other  people  in  the  world;  it  is  as  individ- 
uals that  we  illustrate  such  prodigious  differences.  With, 
therefore,  a comparative  identity  of  interest,  it  is  compar- 
atively easy  for  every  one  to  mean  by  “ the  people”  the 
whole  people,  rather  than  the  peasant,  the  ouvrier  or  the 
Tiers  Etat  even.  How  long  this  will  last  with  us  is,  of 
course,  problematical.  1 he  wise  words  of  Mr.  Lincoln  s 
first  annual  message:  ” There  is  no  such  relation  between 
capital  and  labor  as  assumed,  nor  is  there  any  such  thing 
as  a free  man  being  fixed  for  life  in  the  condition  of  a 
hired  laborer.  . . . The  prudent,  penniless  beginner 

in  the  world  labors  for  wages  for  a while,  saves  a surplus 
with  which  to  buy  tools  or  land  for  himself,  then  labors 
on  his  own  account  another  while,  and  at  length  hires 
another  new  beginner  to  help  him  ” — these  words  are  or 
were  applicable  to  us,  and  are  little  applicable  anywhere 
else.  To  be  exact,  they  should  have  read  “ the  prudent, 
penniless  beginner  in  America,’  not  ” in  the  world.  In 
the  world  in  general  the  relation  between  labor  and  capital 
is  much  more  fixed.  And,  as  I have  already  observed, 
social  differences  among  us  are  crystallizing  and  increas- 
ing, and  social  differences  mean  very  quickly  a changed 
political  atmosphere.  But  should  our  plutocracy  establish 


Democra  cy 


253 


itself,  and  the  lines  between  such  classes  as  we  have 
become  in  consequence  more  closely  drawn  and  less  pass- 
able, we  should  be  very  fortunate,  so  far  as  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  democratic  spirit  is  concerned,  if  our  well-to-do 
and  our  poor,  our  educated  and  our  ignorant,  classes  had. 
the  same  mutual  respect  and  tolerance  which  exist  in 
France  between  the  upper,  middle,  and  lower  classes. 
For  in  France,  these  classes  are  cemented  by  the  social 
instinct  and  the  democratic  spirit  into  a whole,  which,  if 
not  possessed  of  identical  interests,  is,  at  least,  composed 
of  harmoniously  balanced  and  equally  recognized  con- 
stituent elements.  There  is  a certain  advantage,  indeed, 
in  the  comparative  permanence  of  the  class  situation  in 
France.  The  ouvrier  who  is  always  to  be  an  ouvrier , the 
bourgeois  or  the  peasant  who  is  always  to  remain  such,  as 
his  fathers  did  before  and  as  his  son  will  after  him,  is  the 
more  interested  in  maintaining  his  dignity  and  asserting 
his  importance  as  ouvrier , bourgeois , or  peasant;  whence  a 
manifest  equilibrium  in  the  regulation  of  a society  com- 
posed of  necessarily  unequal  classes,  by  the  elastic  com- 
pensating force  of  democratic  feeling.  Personally  the 
ouvrier  is  likely  to  count  less,  of  course,  than  where,  as 
still  with  us,  he  may  hope  to  become  a patron.  But  as  a 
class  he  counts  more;  and  as  a class  our  oitvriers  are,  as  I 
said,  rapidly  tending  to  become  a class  dangerously  with- 
out class  self-respect — a class  composed  rather  of  envious 
individuals  soured  by  the  loss  of  that  opportunity  which 
in  a simpler  situation  their  sires  possessed.  We  shall  then 
have  Mr.  Gladstone’s  democracy  with  its  cry  of  “ the 
classes  vs.  the  masses  ” — a motto  subscribed  to  at  present 
neither  by  the  French  nor  ourselves.  Class,  in  France  no 
more  than  in  America,  implies  caste. 

One  hears  a good  deal  about  the  French  government 


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not  being  really  a republic,  about  its  being  as  autocratic 
and  as  fond  of  tyrannical  traditions  as  a monarchy  could 
be.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  reasons  assigned  for 
this  conviction  seem  a little  literal.  Of  course,  if  to  have 
a large  party  within  your  borders  which  is  opposed  to  a 
republican  form  of  government  is,  ipso  facto,  to  be  “a 
republic  only  in  name,”  the  French  Republic  is  open  to 
that  reproach.  But  this  very  circumstance  is  a sufficient 
justification  for  a good  deal  of  the  so-called  arbitrariness 
of  the  Republic’s  action  of  recent  years.  Only  a pedant 
would  be  embarrassed  by  the  logic  of  the  late  Louis  Veuil- 
lot,  who  remarked  in  defence  of  ultramontanism,  “ When 
you  are  in  power  we  demand  tolerance,  because  it  is  your 
principle;  when  we  are  in  power  we  refuse  it,  because  it  is 
not  ours.”  It  is  no  party’s  principle  to  the  extent  of 
tolerating  what  would,  if  tolerated,  do  its  utmost  to  com- 
pass the  destruction  of  tolerance.  The  republican  creed, 
however  superficially  inconsistent  it  may  seem,  must  in  its 
first  article  require  subscription  to  the  republican  form  as 
the  necessary  basis  of  toleration,  of  liberty.  A great  deal 
of  criticism  of  the  Republic’s  action  in  removing  the 
Orleanist  princes  from  their  positions  in  the  army,  and  in 
expelling  pretenders,  found  its  way  at  the  time  into  the 
American  and  English  press.  But  no  country  in  the  world 
would  for  a moment  tolerate  an  analogous  formal  and 
avowed  conspiracy  within  its  borders.  Does  any  one  sup- 
pose that  if  Lord  Wolseley  should  declare  his  preference 
for  a republic,  and  should  devote  himself  to  a propa- 
gandism  in  the  British,  equivalent  to  that  of  the  Orleans 
princes  some  years  ago  in  the  French,  army,  he  would 
remain  a day  in  the  royal  service?  Why,  because  a repub- 
lic is  professedly  more  tolerant  than  any  other  form  of 
government,  it  should  therefore  be  the  less,  rather  than 


Democracy 


*55 


the  more,  entitled  to  regard  self-preservation  as  its  first 
law,  is  a mystery.  It  is,  moreover,  a mystery  we  should 
find  it  more  difficult  to  explain  now  than  we  might  have 
done  before  the  trials  of  the  German,  Polish,  and  English 
anarchists  in  Chicago,  and  of  their  truculent  and  ridicu- 
lous spokesman,  Most,  in  New  York.  But,  it  is  said,  we 
are  distinguished  for  our  wise  and  sober  capacity  to  wait 
for  the  “ overt  act,”  before  we  punish  its  incitement.  This 
is  no  longer  quite  true;  but,  aside  from  the  ridiculousness 
of  such  delay  when  the  “ overt  act  ” has  been  shown  by 
experience  to  be  certain  to  follow  its  incitement,  it  really 
behooves  us  to  acknowledge  that  recent  events  have 
shown  our  disposition  to  go  quite  as  far  in  the  way  of 
repression  as  the  French  Republic  does,  if  we  had  the 
same  temptation,  rather  than  to  dwell  complacently  on 
our  superior  republican  consistency.  Really,  the  differ- 
ence between  ourselves  and  the  French  here  is  only  that 
which  proceeds  from  the  excess  of  their  state  action  over 
ours.  And  what  is  really  extraordinary  in  the  case  of  the 
present  Republic  is,  that  the  logic  of  republican  tolerance 
has  so  completely  counteracted  the  tendency  to  tyranny 
springing  naturally  from  excessive  state  action.  The 
tyranny  of  the  government  has  in  no  instance,  I imagine, 
exceeded,  if  indeed  it  has  equalled,  the  party  tyranny 
which  our  present  tariff  and  our  theory  of  a civil  service 
produce  among  us. 

The  danger  of  democracy  is  always  despotism,  it  is  true; 
but  it  should  always  be  borne  in  mind  that  this  despotism 
means  popular,  not  at  all  oriental,  despotism,  as  pessimists 
presume.  Universal  suffrage  gets  impatient  with  parlia- 
mentarism whenever  any  political  shoe  really  pinches, 
and  wishes  to  assert  itself  directly.  We  have  ourselves 
passed  through  at  least  one  such  peril,  since  Hamilton’s 


256 


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hope  of  a limited  monarchy  to  succeed  our  initial  republi- 
can institutions  perished  at  the  hands  of  practical  pioneer 
good  sense.  I mean,  of  course,  the  third  term  movement 
in  favor  of  that  one  of  our  presidents  who  was  most  con- 
spicuously a civic  failure.  Democracy  has  precisely  this 
practical  peril.  Publicists  who  are  especially  terrified  at 
it  do  well  not  to  be  democrats.  And  France  has  seemed 
often  to  “ need  a strong  hand  to  govern  her,”  as  political 
sciolists  are  so  fond  of  saying,  only  because  she  has,  since 
the  Revolution,  at  all  events,  been  so  determinedly  and 
persistently  democratic.  The  democratic  instinct  is  in 
France  too  imperative  and  too  irreflective  to  consider 
consequences  when  any  unpopular  regwie  is  in  power — to 
consider  the  results  of  confounding  nominal  distinctions, 
such  as  Democratic  Republic,  Constitutional  Monarchy, 
Party  Government,  etc. 

When  Morris  and  others,  during  the  Revolution,  prophe- 
sied that  the  first  Republic  would  end  in  a despotism,  they 
were  arguing  from  historical  precedent,  and  prophesying 
an  altogether  different  kind  of  despotism  from  that  of 
Napoleon.  It  is  amusing  to  note  the  complacency  with 
which  these  prophets  speak  afterward  of  the  fulfilment  of 
their  predictions  in  this  regard.  What  they  really  pre- 
dicted was  the  rise  of  an  autocrat  like  the  Russian  Czar, 
or  the  Roman  Emperors — of  such  a tyrant  as  Napoleon 
was  contemporarily  believed  to  be  in  England,  where 
nurses  used  his  name  to  frighten  children  with;  whereas, 
of  course,  instead  of  being  essentially  reactionary,  Napo- 
leon was  in  many  ways  what  he  called  himself,  and  what 
the  national  temper  compelled  him  to  be,  “ the  incarna- 
tion of  the  Revolution,”  and  Emerson’s  representative 
democrat.  The  despot  Morris  foretold  would  hardly  have 
denounced  England  as  an  oligarchy.  Nor,  in  spite  of  his 


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Corsican  vulgarity,  which  made  him  do  so  much  grosso 
modo,  did  he  attempt  the  role  of  Augustus — who  passes 
with  many  of  our  political  philosophers  now-a-days  for  a 
kind  of  excellent  and  worthy  constitutional  monarch — and 
endeavor  to  realize  in  any  completeness  the  panem  et  cir- 
censes  ideal  of  government.  And  when  we  wonder  at  the 
resignation  with  which  France  accepted  the  coup  d'  etat  of 
1851,  we  forget  that  it  was  in  some  sense  a popular  move; 
that  it  appealed  to  the  people  for  its  justification,  and  that 
at  all  events  it  was  the  overthrow  of  the  reactionary, 
>which  had  succeeded  a visionary,  Chamber.  Moreover, 
the  plebiscites  of  the  latter  part  of  Napoleon  III.’s  reign 
were  so  one-sided  not  so  much  because  the  voters  were 
terrorized  and  corrupted  as  because,  in  the  first  place,  the 
re'gime  was  extremely  democratic  in  almost  every  respect 
except  that  of  administrative  centralization,  and  because, 
in  the  second  place  (and  this  is  too  often  lost  sight  of), 
there  was  nothing  positive  and  definite  for  those  who  did 
not  wish  to  vote  “ yes  ” to  vote  for;  voting  “ no,”  under 
the  circumstances,  was  like  voting  in  the  air.  In  other 
words,  the  regime  was  less  tyrannical,  and  France  less 
inert  and  ductile,  than  is  usually  assumed  to  have  been 
the  case. 

One  of  the  commonest  of  errors  is  to  confuse  state 
action  with  centralization.  The  two  are  sufficiently  dis- 
tinct, however  practically  they  may  be  related  and  recip- 
rocally imply  each  other.  It  is  a commonplace  that  state 
action — which  is  another  name  for  authoritative  govern- 
ment— is,  as  a social  principle,  a question  of  degree. 
Matthew  Arnold — whose  political  and  social  observations 
will  certainly  some  day  obtain  the  recognition  hitherto 
denied  them  by  our  Anglo-Saxon  inability  to  conceive  of 
sound  social  and  political  criticism  as  emanating  from  the 

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258 


Nazareth  of  mere  culture — has  very  well  expressed  the 
gist  of  the  matter  in  his  remark:  “ Some  things  the  state 
had  better  leave  alone,  others  it  had  better  not.”  Even 
in  America  we  acknowledge  the  efficacy  of  police.  And 
we  are  beginning  to  speculate  as  to  whether  railroads  and 
telegraph  lines  would  not  be  better  managed  on  the  prin- 
ciple which  governs  postal  arrangements  than  if  left  in 
their  present  oppressive  anarchy.  We  are,  in  fact,  ap- 
proaching a stage  of  development  which  makes  it  possible 
for  us  to  recognize  that  the  principle  of  state  action  has 
something  to  say  for  itself.  The  late  Mr.  Washburne, 
Minister  to  France  in  1870-71,  mentions  in  his  “ Recollec- 
tions ” that  Napoleon  III.  expressed  to  him — and  one  can 
easily  fancy  the  solemnity  with  which  that  potentate  made 
the  confession — “ his  regret  that  the  French  people  were 
not  better  fitted  for  more  liberal  institutions,  and  for  the 
concessions  he  desired  to  make  to  them.  The  great 
trouble  with  the  French,  he  said,  was  that  they  always 
looked  to  the  government  for  everything,  instead  of 
depending  upon  themselves.”  Our  philanthropists  who 
are  anxious  to  reduce  the  Treasury  surplus  by  preventing 
the  people  of  the  Southern  States  from  depending  upon 
themselves  for  popular  education,  would  doubtless  object 
to  the  Emperor’s  implication  here;  but  most  Americans, 
probably,  would  be  only  too  ready  to  admit  the  demoral- 
izing effects  of  state  action  on  the  initiative  and  self- 
respect  of  a democracy.  And  we  may  be  very  right  in 
the  main  and  still,  so  far  as  purely  independent  criticism 
is  concerned,  err  in  looking  too  exclusively  at  one  side  of 
the  shield  of  state  action,  especially  as  regards  its  work- 
ing in  France.  Napoleon  III.  was  certainly  very  right,  as 
well  as  very  courteous,  in  uttering  his  commonplace;  but 
at  the  same  time  it  might  have  been  replied  to  him,  in  the 


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259 


first  place,  that  one  reason  for  the  French  being  “ unfitted 
for  more  liberal  institutions  ” was  their  necessity  for  an 
army,  and  the  use  to  which  an  army  could  be  put  by 
unscrupulous  usurpers  in  depriving  them  of  such  liberal 
institutions  as  they  were  fitted  for;  and,  secondly,  that 
there  is  no  real  contradiction  between  fitness  for  liberal 
institutions  and  the  habit  of  “ looking  to  the  govern- 
ment ” for  many  things  which  “ the  government  ” can 
best  compass  and  supply. 

The  fact  is  that  we  are  as  likely  to  underestimate  the 
salutary  efficiency  of  official  action  as  the  French  are  that 
of  private  enterprise;  government , of  course,  is  a constant 
quantity  and,  as  has  often  been  suggested,  there  is  as 
much  of  it,  on  the  hither  side  of  anarchy,  when  it  is  hap- 
hazard and  irresponsible  as  when  it  is  organized.  From 
the  democratic  point  of  view,  one  of  the  best  effects  of 
state  action  in  a society  hampered,  like  that  of  France,  by 
the  remains  of  feudalism,  is  the  abolition  of  privilege  by 
law.  The  relations  between  absence  of  state  action  and 
privilege  are  closer  and  more  direct  than  we  imagine.  In 
England,  for  example,  where  the  privileges  of  the  privi- 
leged classes  form  a part  of  that  Constitution  so  greatly 
extolled  as  a growth  and  not  a device,  minute  state  regu- 
lations, codes,  etc.,  are  easily  dispensed  with,  because  the 
strong  can  readily  get  along  without  them,  and  because 
only  the  strong  are  accounted  worthy — and  by  a natural 
consequence  alone  are  so  in  reality,  perhaps.  With  us 
opportunity  has  hitherto  rendered  privilege  less  important 
than  it  is  anywhere  else;  but  where  competition  is  at  all 
close,  privilege — which  is  no  more  an  artificial  product 
than  original  sin — flourishes  with  a luxuriance  as  natural 
and  logical  as  it  is  excessive.  In  France,  where  such 
opportunity  as  ours  is  necessarily  lacking,  the  democratic 


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instinct  requires  that  its  absence  be  supplied  in  a thou- 
sand ways  and  details  by  law,  by  regulations,  by  a minute 
explicitness  of  administration.  The  fact  that  in  France  it 
costs  a tenant  three  cents  to  drive  a defacing  nail  into  a 
landlord’s  wood-work  is,  it  is  easy  to  see,  a democratic 
provision  in  a highly  organized  society  where  nail-driving 
is  important.  What  is  liberty,  exclaims  M.  Scherer,  but  a 
regulation  and  adjustment  of  warring  interests?  Tenny- 
son would  reply  that  it  is  a result  arrived  at  merely  by 
permitting  a man  to  “ speak  the  thing  he  will.”  But  this 
is,  if  not  fustian,  clearly  elementary;  and  so  are  state- 
ments of  ours  like:  “ The  measure  of  every  man’s  rights 
is  another’s  wrongs.”  What  is  gained  from  the  social 
and  democratic  point  of  view  if,  in  the  former  case,  social 
tyranny  (which  is  really  a political  result)  is  so  exaggerated 
as  to  make  political  liberty  (which  is  really  a political 
agent)  futile;  and  if,  in  the  latter,  a man’s  rights  receive 
a merely  negative  authorization  for  exercise  in  vacuo , so 
to  speak,  or  else  another’s  wrongs  are  measured  by  tradi- 
tionary standards  which  fail  to  note  the  degree  of  wrong 
apparent  to  the  instinctive  sense  of  reason  and  justice?  In 
spite  of  these  commonplaces,  we  are  obliged  to  acknowl- 
edge that,  however  good  political  economy  the  principle 
of  laisser  faire  may  be,  in  the  matter  of  political  and  social 
organization  it  is  a principle  very  speedily  transformed 
into  the  principle  of  laisser  aller.  And  in  a democracy 
like  that  of  France  which  is  not  rendered  elastic  by  oppor- 
tunity this  means  anarchy.  Where  an  active  and  intelli- 
gent proletariat  is  comparatively  permanent  on  the  one 
hand,  and  takes  the  place  of  a ” brutalized  lower  class  ” 
on  the  other,  the  feeling  that  society  needs  protection 
against  the  individual  rather  than  the  converse  is  quickly 
developed.  The  proletariat  comes  quickly  to  share  it, 


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261 


and  tends  in  consequence  to  socialism.  The  feeling  is 
carried  so  far  in  France  that  it  sometimes  seems,  for 
example,  as  if  French  jurisprudence  itself  contemplated 
the  punishment  of  the  innocent  with  more  resignation 
than  the  escape  of  the  guilty.  And  even  in  this  excess  it 
is  not  an  autocratic,  but  a democratic,  feeling.  The  sense 
that  you  are  protected  is  much  greater  in  France  than 
either  in  England  or  among  ourselves. 

Centralization  is  so  much  another  thing  that  one  may 
indeed  ascribe  to  it,  rather  than  to  authoritative  and  elab- 
orate state  action,  the  lack  of  individual  initiative  and 
dependence  on  one’s  self  which  so  deeply  distressed  Napo- 
leon III.  in  the  French.  When  elaborate  state  action  is 
democratic  rather  than  paternal,  when  it  means  simply 
systematic  attention  to  social  administrative  needs;  when, 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  not  Prussian,  but  French,  it  tends, 
perhaps  we  may  say,  to  develop  rather  than  counteract 
individual  activities  of  a high,  by  preventing  the  necessity 
for  those  of  a low,  order.  For  example,  a man  who  is 
restrained  by  “ officialism  ” from  jumping  for  ferry-boats, 
or  crossing  railway-tracks  in  front  of  coming  trains,  can 
release  for  more  positive  uses  some  of  the  alertness  he 
would  otherwise  be  forced  to  keep  under  tension  to  the 
mere  end  of  continued  existence.  However,  the  privilege 
of  looking  out  for  one’s  self  in  all  such  instances — and 
they  are  more  numerous  and  varied  than  we  are  apt  to 
remember — forms  so  precious  a part  of  an  American’s  per- 
sonal liberty,  that  it  would  very  likely  be  unwise  to  insist  on 
this  point.  As  to  the  effect  of  centralization  on  individual 
initiative,  there  can,  I think,  at  any  rate,  be  no  doubt. 
Its  warmest  advocates  agree  in  this  with  its  severest  crit- 
ics. Even  under  democratic  auspices,  and  when  it  is  of 
the  most  loyally  representative  character,  it  means  inevit- 


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ably  government  “ for  ” but  not  “ by  ” the  people,  and 
its  liability  to  abuse  is  self-evident.  It  is  advocated  by 
French  democrats  mainly  because  “it  is  a condition  and 
not  a theory  ’’  that  confronts  them,  to  quote  the  admira- 
ble expression  of  President  Cleveland.  The  cardinal 
necessity  for  France,  in  view  of  this  condition,  is  to  be 
strong.  It  is  as  true  now  as  it  was  during  the  Revolution 
— not  as  true  materially,  but  as  true  morally — that,  as 
Gouverneur  Morris  said,  “ France  has  an  enemy  in  every 
prince.”  It  is  this  enmity — betrayed  every  week  in  the 
Liberal  London  “ Spectator,”  even,  which  long  ago  wrote 
a famous  article  entitled  “ The  Fall  of  the  French  Repub- 
lic ” — that  makes  it  necessary  for  France,  so  far  as  her 
attitude  toward  Europe  is  concerned,  to  be  a unit  and  a 
powerful  one.  This  was  the  reason  why  Gambetta  per- 
mitted the  first  serious  breach  in  the  Republican  ranks, 
and  suffered  the  schism  of  the  Cletnenceau  Radicals.  He 
contested  M.  Clemenceau’s  statesman-like  contention  that 
the  lime  had  come  to  consider  internal  politics,  and  that 
decentralization  within  certain  limits  would  immensely 
stimulate  in  modern  France  the  moral  qualities  which  built 
the  cathedrals  and  made  the  communes  of  the  Middle 
Ages  what  they  were.  He  believed  that  centralization 
alone  could  so  weld  together  politically  the  various  peo- 
ples that  compose  the  French  nation — the  Norman  with 
the  Gascon,  the  Breton  with  the  Tourangeau,  the  Proven- 
cal with  the  Lorrain — as  to  keep  the  traditional  French 
position  in  Europe,  menaced  as  this  was  by  the  anti-demo- 
cratic European  forces  marshalled  against  it,  from  the 
reactionary  hostility  of  united  Germany  to  the  traditional 
Tory  distrust  of  Great  Britain.  We  may  be  pleased  that 
his  residence  in  the  United  States,  perhaps,  confirmed  M. 
Clemenceau  in  his  radical  belief  in  the  panacea  of  local 


De7iiocracy 


2 63 


self-government,  without  presuming  to  decide  between 
two  such  political  philosophers  and  practical  statesmen  as 
Gambetta  and  himself.  And  we  may  wish  that  the  condi- 
tion of  Europe — aggravated  by  the  barbarous  seton  which 
Prince  Bismarck,  in  taking  from  France  her  eastern  fron- 
tier, inserted  in  the  European  flank — did  not  so  terribly 
complicate  the  problem  of  French  internal  progress,  with- 
out failing  to  recognize  that  if  centralization  has  marred 
the  welfare,  it  has  largely  achieved  the  greatness,  of  that 
France  which  finds  it  impossible  to  conceive  of  welfare 
apart  from  greatness.  But  we  may  be  sure,  at  all  events, 
that  decentralization  would  not  mean  abandonment  of 
state  actioil  in  France,  and  that  local,  would  not  imply 
individual,  self-government  there. 

I11  a very  noteworthy  passage  of  what  are  curiously 
called  his  theological  writings,  Matthew  Arnold  character- 
izes France  as  a brilliant  and  attractive  Ishmael,  and 
exclaims  in  his  happiest  scriptural  vein:  “ How  often  for 
France  has  gone  up  the  cry,  ‘ Oh  that  Ishmael  might  live 
before  the  Lord,’  ” maintaining  that  just  at  the  moment 
when  the  French  Ishmael  seems  succeeding  he  breaks 
down  notably,  and  the  homely  Isaac  gets  the  succession. 
I dare  say  this  is  so,  with  certain  reservations.  But  what 
must  strike  one  most  in  the  history  of  this  brilliant  Ish- 
mael is  his  prodigious  success,  and  not  his  breakings  down 
at  all.  Even  his  occasional  utter  collapses  such  as  I sup- 
pose Mr.  Arnold  considered  the  disasters  of  Louis  XIV. ’s 
later  days,  of  1815,  of  L'annee  terrible,  fail,  I think,  to 
impress  the  imagination  as  vividly  as  his  astonishing  recu- 
perative power;  and,  indeed,  the  most  terrible  of  his 
“ disasters  ” seems  hardly  to  outweigh  the  corresponding 
benefit  accompanying  or  soon  succeeding  it.  So  that  the 


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average  of  success  resulting  from  Ishmael’s  amazing 
activity  seems  still  high.  What  experiences  he  has  of 
sickness  and  health,  of  heroic  treatment  for  obstinate  ills, 
of  long  periods  of  vigorous  activity,  of  extremes  of  all 
sorts,  of  sensations  of  all  kinds!  Beside  his  varied  and 
full  existence,  the  peaceful  and  placid  hibernation  of  “ the 
homely  Isaac  ” across  the  Channel,  dreaming  of  the  vic- 
tory of  the  hedgehog  over  the  hare,  presents  certainly  a 
less  striking  object  to  the  imagination.  But  Ishmael’s 
admitted  success  so  far  predominates  over  his  failures  and 
his  “ breakings  down!”  I am  perfectly  willing  to  agree 
with  Mr.  Arnold  that  “ a little  more  Biblism  would  do 
him  no  harm.”  But  how  he  triumphs  over  this  lack,  I 
say,  is  the  striking  thing  about  him,  and  the  explanation 
of  his  doing  so  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  facts  in  con- 
nection with  him.  If,  in  spite  of  his  lack  of  Biblism,  he  is 
so  successful,  it  must  be  either  that  we  overestimate  the 
importance  of  Biblism,  or  else  that  his  institutions  are  par- 
ticularly adapted  to  bring  him  success.  Either  character 
counts  less  than  ordinarily  we  think  it  does,  or  institutions 
count  more. 

And  if  we  examine  into  the  matter  closely  we  shall  find 
that  just  in  so  far  as  institutions  affect  a people,  the 
French  are  eminently  successful,  and  that  just  in  those 
qualities  which  no  institutions  can  touch  in  people  to 
affect  them  in  any  way,  the  French  fail.  Institutions  may 
be  taken  by  extension  to  mean  all  the  formulated  instincts 
which  the  people  of  a nation  possess  in  common.  They 
have  a great,  a prodigious,  direct  effect  in  determining 
the  national  expression,  the  national  character.  They 
have  only  an  indirect  association  with  individual  character 
and  expression.  Hence  we  find  the  French  nationally 
very  strong,  very  conspicuously  successful.  In  individual 


Democracy 


265 


character  the  homely  Isaac  may  have  charms  for  ns  of  an 
enduring  attractiveness,  to  which  no  Ishmaelite  brilliancy 
and  vivacity  can  pretend.  But  to  any  one  who  has  really 
seen  their  working,  any  doubt  of  the  essential  wisdom  of 
French  institutions,  or  any  query  as  to  whether  the 
national  expression  which  they  embody  is  not  far  in 
advance  of  any  national  expression  elsewhere  illustrated 
in  Europe,  is  impossible.  From  nearly  every  point  of 
view,  certainly,  France  strikes  an  American  sense  as  suc- 
cessful. There  is  by  general  admission  more  happiness 
enjoyed  by  more  people  in  France  than  in  any  other  Euro- 
pean country.  Well-being  is  more  evenly  distributed 
there.  Henry  IV. ’s  measure  of  national  success,  namely, 
a fowl  in  every  man’s  pot,  is  more  nearly  attained  there 
than  anywhere  else.  In  France  there  is  nothing  analo- 
gous to  the  famous  East  End  of  London;  even  Paris  has 
no  “slums.”  The  people,  from  top  to  bottom,  is  far 
more  perfectly  humanized  than  elsewhere.  Equality  has 
been  such  a practical  educator  for  them  that  even  the 
ignorant  have  attained  that  intelligence  which  is  the  end 
of  formal  education  in  greater  measure  than  the  corre- 
sponding classes  of  the  most  highly  educated  portions  of 
Prussia  itself.  Fewer  emigrants  leave  the  most  over- 
crowded regions,  and  these  almost  never  without  hope  of 
return.  The  attraction  France  has  for  Frenchmen  is 
something  of  which  we  can  form  no  adequate  notion. 
Everything  French  suits  exactly  every  Frenchman.  Life 
is  a larger  thing,  or,  at  any  rate,  people  in  general  are 
more  alive — not  nervously  and  feverishly,  as  we  are  apt  to 
fancy  from  the  novels,  but  freely  and  expansively.  As  to 
French  literature,  art,  and  science,  the  elegant  side  of 
social  life,  the  characteristics  which  go  to  make  a nation 
admired  and  envied  abroad,  there  is  clearly  no  need  to 


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insist  on  this  element  of  the  contemporary  success  of 
France.  She  is  no  longer  la  grande  ?iation  to  any  but  her 
own  citizens,  but  that  is  not  because  she  has  diminished, 
as  one  is  constantly  hearing  from  superficial  foreign  critics 
as  well  as  from  French  fatuity  itself,  but  because  her  pre- 
ponderance has  disappeared  with  the  rise  in  the  modern 
world  of  other  nations.  She  has  herself  contributed  so 
much  to  this  result  that  she  can  hardly  realize  that  it  has 
actually  taken  place.  But  because  there  are  now  a united 
Germany,  and  a united  Italy,  and  the  United  States  of 
America  in  the  world,  and  a Radical  party  in  England, 
and  so  on,  it  is  only  a frivolous  notion  to  suppose  that 
France  has  stood  still  any  more  than  ever  these  last  fifteen 
years  in  national  development,  or  has  become  internation- 
ally a figure  of  any  less  real  and  serious  attractiveness 
and  importance.  She  is  no  longer  the  arbiter  of  Europe, 
but  that  was  a factitious  success  which  was  in  many  ways 
a drawback  to  her  real  hold  on  foreign  minds;  she  is  much 
more  attractive  to  serious  strangers  when  bearing  Victor 
Hugo  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  to  the  Pantheon  than 
when  confiscating  his  books  at  the  Belgian  frontier.  Her 
internal  development  since  the  Republic  has  been  far 
greater  than  most  persons  who  are  strangers  to  any  close 
study  of  contemporary  politics  are  apt  to  suppose;  we  all 
know  about  M.  Ferry’s  Tonquin  failure,  for  example,  but 
very  few  of  us  know  anything  of  his  work  for  popular 
education. 

French  democracy  does  not  practically  date  from  the 
Revolution.  The  Revolution  awakened  it  into  conscious- 
ness, imbued  it  with  ideality,  saturated  it  with  sentiment, 
and  endued  it  with  efficient  force.  But  democracy,  in  the 
form  of  the  social  instinct  indirectly  but  powerfully  shap- 
ing political  action,  is  in  France  nearly  as  old  as  the 


Democracy 


267 


nation  itself.  But  for  it  the  despotism  of  Louis  XIV. 
never  would  have  been  prepared  by  Richelieu  and  Maza- 
rin;  but  for  it  indeed,  Louis  XI.  would  never  have  check- 
mated his  vassals.  The  democratic  spirit  sapped  the 
strength  of  the  Fronde  as  surely  as  the  autocratic  turbu- 
lence of  the  English  barons  won  Magna  Charta  from 
King  John,  who  was  a tyrant  of  the  Byzantine  rather  than 
the  Greek  order  and  had  no  representative  character  what- 
ever. In  estimating  the  natural  independence  of  spirit  as 
regards  government  exhibited  by  different  peoples,  per- 
sistency in  the  face  of  discouragement  affords  as  good  a 
measure  of  intensity,  indeed,  as  the  actual  gain  in  specific 
liberties,  which  is  more  generally  taken  as  the  standard. 
In  fact,  it  may  be  a better  measure  of  the  natural  ten- 
dency toward  independence,  for  success  in  achieving  lib- 
erty increases  the  love  of  it,  and  so  the  original  force 
which  secures  it  is  increased  by  its  attainment  in  a way 
almost  to  be  described  as  mechanical.  Now,  the  French 
in  their  communal  revolts  of  the  twelfth  century  demanded 
for  their  separate  cities  very  much  the  reforms  which  in 
the  Revolution  they  demanded  for  the  whole  of  France. 
Against  full  success  then  the  nobles  were  arrayed;  against 
the  retention  of  what  gains  were  accorded  by  the  crown 
stood  the  lack  of  unity  of  law  and  of  a jurisdiction  to 
which  all  should  be  alike  subject,  as  had  been  the  more 
favorable  condition  of  England  from  the  time  of  the  Con- 
quest, when  the  Conqueror  brought  the  Norman  talent  for 
administration  to  bear  on  Saxon  anarchy.  A still  more 
hostile  element  was  the  very  sense  of  solidarity  in  the 
people,  a sense  greatly  quickened  by  the  influence  of  the 
crown  and  the  church  in  conjunction — the  crown  working 
to  combat  the  disintegrating  and  German  spirit  of  separa- 
tism and  the  independence  of  the  nobles,  the  church  con- 


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French  Traits 


tending  against  the  tendency  to  relapse  into  barbarism 
and  the  decay  of  faith.  This  joint  effort  of  church  and 
crown  indeed  is  definitely  traceable  from  the  time  of 
Charlemagne,  and  in  germ  even  from  the  invasion  of  the 
barbarians;  and  it  found  its  culmination  under  Louis 
XIV.,  when  the  nobles  were  definitively  conquered  by  the 
crown  and  the  Reformation  by  the  church.  Meantime  the 
French  people,  in  helping  to  overcome  the  nationally  dis- 
integrating movement  which  the  Reformation  in  effect 
was,  erected  the  church  into  a tyrant  such  as  it  had  never 
been  before,  and  lost  their  civil  liberties  to  the  crown 
before  the  tyrannizing  nobles,  against  whom  the  crown 
was  fighting  their  fight,  were  entirely  subdued.  The 
attachment  to  liberty  of  a people  thus  cheated  of  it  by 
circumstances  of  a fatal  perversity — circumstances  which 
but  for  the  Conqueror’s  earlier  and  consequently  less 
rigorous  centralization,  might  have  triumphed  over  Eng- 
lish energy  as  well — naturally  became  fanatical  in  its 
intensity  when  the  burden  of  despotism  became  at  once 
intolerable  and  absurd.  Nothing  so  well  as  its  evolution 
explains  the  very  extravagances  of  the  Revolution — the 
utopia  of  ’89,  the  Terror  of  ’93.  Only  by  forgetting  their 
history  is  it  possible  to  talk  glibly  of  the  French  as  unfit- 
ted by  nature  for  self-government.  And,  indeed,  one 
would  think  sometimes  that  the  works  of  Augustin 
Thierry,  instead  of  being  as  accessible  in  English  as  in 
French,  had  never  been  written  at  all. 

“ Nus  sumes  homes  cum  il  sunt ; 

Tex  membres  avum  cum  il  unt, 

Kt  altresi  granz  cors  avum, 

Et  altretant  sofrir  pottm  ; 

Ne  nus  faut  fore  cuer  sulement,” 

sings  the  Roman  de  Rou  in  the  twelfth  century.  When 


Democ7'acy 


269 


the  Declaration  des  Droits  de  1’ Homme,  which  has  the 
same  inspiration,  was  written,  the  “ cuer  ” was  supplied. 

It  is,  moreover,  important  to  remember  that  when  we 
speak  of  self-government  and  democracy  as  identical,  and 
of  self-government  as  a peculiarly  Anglo-Saxon  institu- 
tion, we  lose  an  essential  distinction  in  vagueness.  The 
only  sense  in  which  self-government  is  exclusively  Anglo- 
Saxon,  in  the  view  of  continental  critics — both  those  who 
extol  and  those  who  distrust  it — is  the  sense  of  private 
rather  than  official  government.  Its  maxims  are  “ the 
state  had  better  leave  things  alone,”  and  “ the  best  gov- 
ernment is  that  which  governs  least.”  But  manifestly, 
when  we  think  of  self-government  as  government  by 
trusts,  corporations,  and  newspapers,  or  by  what  Profes- 
sor Huxley  calls  a “ beadleocracy,  ” the  term  appears 
euphemistic.  What  we  really  mean  by  self-government, 
when  we  praise  it  intelligently,  is  either  representative 
government  or  else  local  self-government — “ home-rule,” 
as  we  say.  Local  self-government  is,  as  every  American 
must  believe,  an  admirable  institution  as  it  works  with  us; 
but  clearly  it  has  not  the  universality  of  a principle,  and 
if,  when  we  say  that  self-government  is  a lofty  ideal,  we 
really  mean  that  it  is  a good  thing  for  a village  commu- 
nity to  elect  its  own  selectmen,  or  for  a city  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  a State  legislature,  we  shall  certainly  say  it 
with  less  emotion.  Representative  government  is  also  a 
splendid  piece  of  political  machinery,  but  in  itself  it  is 
machinery.  Nor  is  it  by  any  means  necessarily  demo- 
cratic. Everything  depends  on  the  degree  and  character 
of  representation. 

Of  recent  years  especially,  “ representative  govern- 
ment ” has  become  one  of  the  hardest  worked  elements  of 
our  inveterate  Anglo-Saxon  self-laudation.  Glimmerings 


270 


French  Traits 


of  it  are  discovered  in  the  twilight  of  the  Teutonic  genesis, 
with  an  assiduity  curiously  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  it 
gains  its  practical  significance  only  from  its  application  to 
a Third  Estate  then  in  the  womb  of  time  and  since  devel- 
oped by  the  rise  and  decay  of  feudalism  with  its  result  of 
social  differentiation.  And  yet  if  the  East  End  of  Lon- 
don could  read,  it  would  no  doubt  be  as  proud  of  the  pre- 
Norman  Witenagemote  as  Mr.  Freeman.  But  here  again 
history  shows  how  easy  it  is  to  mistake  names  for  things. 
History  shows  that  representative  government  properly 
so-called  has  been  no  more  the  ally  of  democracy  than  it 
has  been  of  national  unity.  It  was  really  born  in  Europe 
in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  in  consequence  of 
the  great  popular  movement  of  the  communes.  The  cir- 
cumstance that  the  Third  Estate  was  first  represented  (for 
special  reasons  and  through  special  causes)  in  Aragon,  next 
in  France,  and  last  of  all  in  England  and  Germany — the 
matter  of  precedence,  that  is  to  say — is  comparatively 
trivial,  though  the  small  amount  of  disturbance  it  created 
in  France  indicates  how  slight  was  the  change  there  which 
it  involved,  and  therefore  how  thoroughly  in  accord  with 
the  spirit  of  the  whole  nation  was  the  movement  it  stands 
for.  The  important  consideration  is  that  the  movement 
was  general,  European,  and  popular.  It  declined  in 
France  and  Spain  and  increased  in  England,  so  that  it 
died  under  Philip  IV.  and  Louis  XIII.,  just  as  it  reached 
a splendid  climax  in  the  English  struggle  against  the 
Stuarts.  But  it  declined  in  France  because  the  foe  which 
destiny,  in  the  way  I have  already  recalled,  raised  up  to 
the  noblesse  was  despotism — because  the  king  made  himself 
the  leader  of  the  popular  party  and  the  personification  of 
national  unity,  just  as  the  tyrants  of  the  Greek  cities  did 
in  the  contest  between  the  people  and  their  oligarchies. 


Democracy 


271 


No  despot  was  ever  more  “ representative  ” than  Louis 
XIV.  declared  himself  in  the  famous  phrase,  “ L’Etat, 
c’est  moi.”  It  resumed  its  sway,  sanctioned,  secured,  and 
modified  by  the  Revolution,  after  the  monarchy  ceased  to 
represent  its  cause  under  Louis  XV.,  and  the  “ deluge  ” 
issued  in  constitutional  government  of  a real,  that  is  to 
say,  a written  kind  fortified  and  guaranteed  by  a code. 
In  England,  on  the  other  hand,  owing  its  popularity  to  its 
sympathy  with  the  feudal  caste  notion  of  contract,  it 
developed  because  the  Third  Estate,  never  concerned 
about  associating  political  power  to  political  freedom, 
passed  into  the  control  of  a powerful  set  of  allied  nobles; 
and  the  politics  of  the  country  speedily  became  a contest 
between  a Tory  and  a Whig  aristocracy — representative 
government  being  the  weapon  of  each,  and  used  as  the 
instrument  of  popular  oppression  to  this  day,  when  it  gives 
Lord  Lonsdale  forty  livings  and  the  Duke  of  Westminster 
half  the  West  End  of  London. 

In  a word,  history  shows  that  representative  govern- 
ment is,  in  the  first  place,  not  in  itself  a talisman,  and,  in 
the  second,  that  though  it  tends  in  great  measure  to  pro- 
mote liberty,  it  easily  may  be,  and  in  England  has  been, 
used  to  subvert  equality  and  fraternity.  Hence  the  wisest 
eulogists  of  England  refrain  from  extolling  it  as  a talis- 
man, affect  to  disregard  “ institutions  ” of  all  kinds  as 
anything  other  than  the  outward  signs  of  progress  really 
accomplished  through  force  of  character,  preferring  1640 
to  1688,  for  example,  and  rightly  attributing  every  Eng- 
lish political  step  ahead  to  moral  causes.  But  this  is  not 
at  all  the  case  with  the  French,  whose  turn  for  ideas  and 
intelligence  naturally  leads  them  to  invent  civilizing  agen- 
cies instead  of  relying  on  the  hap-hazard  in  this  field.  An 
important  element  in  the  French  character,  indeed,  is  pre- 


272 


French  Traits 


cisely  this  confidence  in  the  virtue  of  philosophic  organi- 
zation— in  what  we  are  apt  to  stigmatize  as  “ paper 
constitutions,”  scientific  pedantry,  and  “ revolutionary 
methods  ” generally.  It  is  just  as  paradoxical  to  accuse 
the  French  of  leaving  out  of  the  account  the  complexity 
and  perversity  of  human  nature  in  their  mathematical  and 
rule  and  compass  political  philosophy,  as  it  is  superficial  to 
assert  that  their  national  character  unfits  them  for  self- 
government — for  the  democratic  institutions  which  history 
proves  they  have  won  in  the  face  of  difficulties  that  would 
infallibly  have  discouraged  a less  determined  and  inveter- 
ate democratic  national  instinct.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  the  advantages  of  personal  liberty  sanctioned 
by  character  and  the  capacity  for  self-government  (mean- 
ing by  self-government  either  the  absence  of  institutions 
or  what  we  call  “ home-rule  ”),  but  how  irrational  is  it  to 
reproach  a people  whose  character  is  such  that  they  are 
disinclined  to  dispense  with  institutions  and  centralization, 
whose  society  is  so  highly  developed,  so  organic  and  soli- 
daire  that  the  limitation  of  one  man’s  rights  by  another 
man’s  wrongs  occurs  far  more  quickly  than  elsewhere — 
how  irrational  is  it,  I say,  to  reproach  such  a people  with 
failing  to  consider  “ man’s  nature  as  modified  by  his  hab- 
its,” when  their  habits  have  no  special  sanction  for  them 
and,  so  far  as  they  are  inveterate,  are  in  harmony  with 
nature — whose  habit  it  is,  in  a word,  to  consider  reason 
rather  than  habit!  If  it  is  the  French  nature  to  believe  in 
theories,  theories  rather  than  the  anomalies  and  systems 
of  checks  in  which  they  do  not  believe  should  predominate 
in  their  institutions.  How  idle  is  it  to  commiserate  them 
for  their  instability,  when  not  stability  but  flux  is  their 
ideal!  With  us  instabdity  would  doubtless  be  very  disas- 
trous (though  we  can  easily  see  how  a little  of  it  would 


Democracy 


273 


benefit  our  English  kin),  because  we  ourselves  look  upon 
it  as  a destructive  and  disintegrating  agent,  not  as  a con- 
dition of  progress — quite  aside  from  the  additional  reason 
arising  from  the  fact  that  we  were  born  in  the  butterfly 
state,  so  to  speak,  whereas  the  French  still  are,  to  a 
degree,  enmeshed  in  the  filaments  of  their  ecclesiastical 
and  civil  chrysalis  of  feudality. 

This  is  why  we  quite  misconceive  the  revolutionary 
spirit,  as  exemplified  in  French  history.  The  revolution- 
ary spirit,  as  thus  exemplified,  is  as  different  from  the 
rebellious  and  turbulent  spirit  as  it  is  from  the  spirit  of 
submission  and  servility.  It  is  the  reforming  and  revis- 
ing instinct.  It  delights  in  making  over  everything,  in 
carrying  out  new  ideas,  in  taking  a new  point  of  view.  It 
has  invariably  a programme.  It  disbelieves  in  the  sanc- 
tity of  the  status  quo  because  its  instinct  is  to  press  for- 
ward. It  believes,  for  the  same  reason,  in  experiment,  in 
essay,  effort,  intention.  It  is  restlessly  constructive.  It 
is  scientific  rather  than  sentimental.  It  aims  at  adminis- 
tering rather  than  governing.  When  in  reply  to  Louis 
XVIth’s  “ C’est  done  une  revolte?”  the  Due  de  Liancourt 
answered:  “ Non,  Sire,  c’est  une  revolution,”  he  meant 
something  very  different  from  a revolt  on  a very  large 
scale,  and  likely  for  that  reason  to  be  successful.  He 
was  prophesying  an  organic  change,  the  disappearance  of 
the  old  order  before  the  rise  of  the  new.  Revolution,  in 
fine,  with  the  French,  means  largely  change  of  administra- 
tion, not  the  subversion  of  order  which  we  fancy  it  to 
mean  with  them,  and  which  it  would  mean  with  any  peo- 
ple who  regard  not  social  (or  civil)  but  political  law  as  the 
basis  of  the  established  order  and  the  condition  of  civili- 
zation. The  two  points  of  view  are  very  different,  and 
spring  respectively  from  the  individual  spirit  anxious  for 
18 


274 


French  Traits 


freedom  from  constraint,  and  the  social  instinct  concerned 
about  effective  organization,  and  therefore  bent  on  chang- 
ing the  organic,  rather  than  disobeying  the  statutory,  law. 
The  state  being  regarded  as  the  most  important  instru- 
ment of  civilization,  a truly  democratic  people  like  the 
French  is  naturally  predisposed  to  revolutions  whereby  it 
may  get  possession  of  an  administration  which  it  believes 
either  tyrannical  or  ineffective — which  is,  for  any  reason, 
unpopular;  whereas,  trusting  solely  to  individual  initiative 
for  civilizing  agencies,  it  is  far  easier  for  Anglo-Saxondom 
quietly  to  await  a revolution  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington’s 
kind — that  is  to  say,  a revolution  which  is  no  revolution 
at  all,  and  which  involves  a delay  that  has  undoubtedly 
caused  untold  misery  to  the  people  of  England,  however 
serenely  Tennyson  may  celebrate  the  slow  broadening 
down  from  precedent  to  precedent,  and  however  comfort- 
ably “ The  Saturday  Review  ” may  sneer  at  the  searching 
and  lofty  criticism  of  such  works  as  Mr.  Whiteing’s  “ The 
Island.”  To  “ hold  a fretful  realm  in  awe  ” is  not,  in  a 
word,  considered  in  France  the  only  or  the  main  function 
of  “ the  common  sense  of  most.” 

Nor  does  the  French  revolutionary  spirit  conflict  with 
what  we  ordinarily  mean  by  respect  for  law,  and  it  is  quite 
erroneous  to  imagine,  from  their  political  tumultuousness, 
that  in  general  the  French  have  less  of  this  than  ourselves. 
On  the  contrary,  they  have  considerably  more  of  it,  as, 
inconsistently,  we  frequently  attest  when  we  have  an 
opportunity  to  accuse  them  of  being  ” slavish  ” in  this 
regard.  The  deference  for  authority  shown  in  conduct  is 
as  great  as  that  witnessed  for  public  opinion  in  the  matter 
of  individual  ideals  of  all  sorts.  Demeanor  which  we 
describe  as  outrageous  is  with  the  French  not  permis. 
There  is  nothing  corresponding  to  the  lynch  law  estab- 


Democracy 


275 


lished  en  permanence  in  some  of  our  communities  that  are 
by  no  means  to  be  called  “ pioneer  sections.”  Purely 
social  disturbances  never  reach  the  degree  of  violence 
indicated  in  the  existence  of  White  Caps  and  similar 
organizations.  No  one  carries  a revolver.  No  individual 
— no  corporation  even — ever  “ defies  the  law.”  Such 
riots  as  the  Cincinnati  outburst  some  years  ago  over  the 
continued  miscarriage  of  justice,  do  not  occur.  Labor 
troubles,  however  marked  by  turbulence  and  even  blood- 
shed on  occasion,  do  not  result  in  such  subversion  of 
order  as  the  Pittsburgh  riots  of  1877.  The  confidence  one 
feels  in  freedom  from  the  perils  ob  darkness  and  unsavory 
neighborhoods,  from  molestation  or  annoyance,  is  quite 
sensible  to  the  American  in  Paris,  and  is  certainly  attrib- 
utable rather  to  the  ingrained  law-abidingness  of  the  peo- 
ple than  to  the  perfection  of  the  Paris  police  system.  It 
need  hardly  be  added  that  this  respect  and  regard  spring 
rather  from  the  sense  of  conformity  than  that  of  subjec- 
tion. During  the  Commune  of  1871,  which  we  always 
think  of  as  a “ Saturnalian  ” riot,  private  property,  if  it 
was  not  perfectly  safe,  went  at  all  events  extraordinarily 
unmolested.  The  very  cry  that  “ the  people  ” should  be 
permitted  to  be  their  own  police  was  as  ideal  as  it  was 
absurd.  The  license  that  reigned  in  many  respects  was 
by  no  means  brigandish  and  disorderly.  It  was  the  inev- 
itable concomitant  of  attempting  to  execute  the  wild 
notion  that  order  could  be  preserved  by  good  will  as  well 
as  by  organization.  The  “ government  ” still  adminis- 
tered and  directed  the  Theatre  Frampais,  for  example. 
And  in  fine,  theoretically  speaking  and  except  for  the 
inevitable  laxity  accompanying  the  overturning  of  the 
established  order,  respect  for  law  was  essentially  undimin- 
ished. The  burning  of  the  Tuileries  was  the  work  of 


276 


French  Traits 


despair  and  an  incident  of  the  Commune’s  death  agony; 
but  the  overthrow  of  the  Vendome  column  was  a very 
decorous  and  solemn — solemn  in  the  sense  of  solennel — 
proceeding. 

A good  deal  of  the  turbulence  of  the  Revolution  we  mis- 
understand in  the  same  way,  from  mistaking  the  proper 
point  of  view.  Even  as  hostile  a critic  of  the  Revolution 
as  Gouverneur  Morris,  totally  out  of  sympathy  with  every 
effort  for  reform  that  did  not  imply  the  adoption  of  Eng- 
lish institutions,  whose  “ Diary  ” hardly  mentions  any  of 
the  great  popular  leaders  except  Mirabeau,  and  testifies  to 
a curious  unconsciousness  of  the  great  movement  going  on 
about  him  outside  of  boudoirs  and  salons,  is  less  impressed 
by  the  popular  violence  than  we  are  apt  to  be,  because  he 
was  inevitably  better  oriented.  He  enjoyed  the  truth  of 
impressionism,  and  was  at  all  events  not  misled  by  a facti- 
tious perspective.  “ Freedom  and  tranquillity  are  seldom 
companions,”  he  observes  with  characteristic  sententious- 
ness, and  he  considers  the  capture  of  the  Bastille  “ an 
instance  of  great  intrepidity  ” — which  is  valuable  testi- 
mony to  contemporary  feeling.  Much  of  the  violence  of 
the  Revolution  was  animated  by  a certain  loftiness  of 
political  purpose,  even  when  exasperated  by  a situation 
typified  in  the  spectacular  contrast  of  starving  Paris  and 
feasting  Versailles.  Excess  loses  a certain  element  of  its 
viciousness  when  it  is  indulged  in  by  temperaments  ordi- 
narily responsive  only  to  the  intelligence.  The  intelli- 
gence guided  only  by  what  metaphysicians  call  “ the 
logical  understanding,”  and  unaffected  by  the  sentiment 
surrounding  the  status  quo , inevitably  leads  to  uncompro- 
mising conduct,  which  to  instinctive  dependence  on  prece- 
dent seems  more  like  excess  than  it  really  is.  In  other 
words,  excess  is  wholesomely  and  essentially  modified 


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when  those  who  are  guilty  of  it  do  not  regard  it  as  excess 
at  all.  During  all  the  tumult  of  the  Revolution  society 
subsisted  with  a completeness  we  should  find  it  difficult  to 
imagine,  and  such  as  certainly  could  not  exist  during  an 
anarchy  as  absolute  as  that  which  we  fancy  existed  during 
the  Terror.  Not  only  was  the  amount  of  beneficent  legis- 
lation accomplished  prodigious,  as  Mr.  John  Morley  points 
out,  but  art,  letters,  society  flourished  as  gayly  as  they 
had  done  under  the  ancien  regime.  The  galleries  of  the 
Louvre  were  opened  with  eclat  October  io,  1793.  The 
Revolution  in  fact  produced  a school  of  painting  of  its 
own.  Every  sign  of  civilization  subsisted;  the  political 
turmoil  was,  in  fact,  universally  accepted  by  its  authors  as 
in  the  interest  of  civilization. 

It  is  easy  indeed  to  look  at  even  the  cruelty  and  sav- 
agery of  the  Terror,  often  instanced  as  an  evidence  of 
racial  blood-thirstiness,  from  a more  impartial  point  of 
view  than  we  usually  take,  without  in  any  sense  assum- 
ing an  apologetic  attitude.  It  was  not  at  all  the  cruelty 
and  savagery  of  the  last  Valois  days,  any  more  than  it 
partook  of  the  bouffe  character  so  significantly  pointed  out 
by  Voltaire  in  the  conduct  of  the  Fronde  tumults.  The 
cruelty  of  the  Revolution  proceeded  from  individual 
rather  than  national  character.  The  Catholic  Church 
and  administrative  centralization  had  modified  individ- 
ual character  greatly  in  the  direction  of  greatly  lessen- 
ing the  individual  sense  of  responsibility — to  the  point 
indicated  by  Michelet  in  calling  France  “ a nation  of 
savages  civilized  by  the  conscription.”  By  this  extrava- 
gant remark  Michelet  did  not  at  ail  mean  that  before  the 
conscription  Frenchmen  were  brutal,  but  simply  that  they 
were  uncivilized  ; that  individually  they  needed  self-con- 
trol, and  as  a nation  social  organization.  But  the  sense 


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of  the  dignity  of  human  nature  is  an  even  more  civilized 
feeling  than  the  sense  of  the  sanctity  of  human  life,  and 
many  of  the  atrocities,  even,  of  the  Revolution  were  com- 
mitted in  ostensible  vindication  of  the  former  principle. 
One  is  the  maxim  of  a live-and-let-live  individualism,  the 
other  that  of  a society  penetrated  by  the  feeling  that  life 
is  not  worth  considering,  except  in  accordance  with  prin- 
ciples which  make  it  worth  living.  Compare,  for  example, 
the  “ blood-thirsty  clinging  to  life  ” of  Matthew  Arnold’s 
famous  portly  Cheapside  jeweller,  with  the  sentiment  ani- 
mating the  proscribed  Condorcet  writing  a eulogy  of  the 
Revolution  at  the  moment  its  excesses  were  forcing  him  to 
suicide — an  event  which  he  regarded  as  a passing  and 
comparatively  trifling  incident.  A certain  recklessness  of 
one’s  own  life  and  the  contempt  for  that  of  others  go  to- 
gether. Condorcet’s  heroic  indifference  to  death  was  not 
at  the  time  extraordinary.  Many  of  the  important  victims 
of  the  guillotine  may  almost  be  said  to  have  “yielded 
gracefully.’’  Respect  for  human  life  is  undoubtedly,  as 
we  are  never  tired  of  preaching  to  some  of  our  own  com- 
munities, the  first  condition  of  civilization,  but  only  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  In  crises  of  great  moment  the 
maxim  has  a routine  and  perfunctory  ring.  In  such  crises 
it  is  only  a firmament  of  brass  that  echoes  harmoniously 
Wellington’s  great  principle  of  revolution  by  due  course  of 
law.  Given  an  enthusiasm  for  ideas  which  excludes  a care 
for  personality,  an  unqualified  belief  in  reason  unmodified 
by  any  sentimental  conservatism  whatever,  and  a subordi- 
nation of  the  sense  of  individuality  and  individual  dignity 
and  responsibility,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  the  cruelty  and 
savagery  of  the  Revolution  is  to  be  explained. 

Nationally  and  ideally,  even  during  the  Revolution, 
France  was  eminently  humane.  She  emancipated  her 


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279 


slaves  and  those  of  everybody  else  whom  she  could  con- 
trol. Whatever  the  individual  failures  of  her  citizens, 
nationally  she  essayed  the  beau  role  then,  as  since.  In 
the  recent  Tonquin  war  the  French  soldiers  treated  the 
Annamese  “ black  flags  ” with  great  cruelty,  according  to 
accepted  accounts;  but  officially  the  French  authorities 
never  blew  Sepoys  from  the  mouths  of  cannon.  It  was 
perhaps  the  Quixotism,  but  it  was  at  any  rate  the  gener- 
ous humanity  of  M.  Clemenceau  and  his  fellow-Radicals, 
which  prevented  France  from  joining  England  in  Egyp- 
tian interference  in  the  interest  of  bondholders;  and  what 
the  sacrifice  was,  the  envious  chafing  of  France  under  the 
English  Egyptian  occupation  abundantly  witnesses.  Nice 
and  Savoy  were  perhaps  a sufficient  reward  for  French  aid 
to  Victor  Emmanuel  in  1859,  but  what  fought  Solferino 
and  Magenta  was  French  national  enthusiasm  for  the  uni- 
fication of  Italy.  The  Mexico  scheme  had  nothing  of  the 
same  backing,  and  would  have  failed  in  consequence,  per- 
haps, without  our  own  determined  hostility  and  admirable 
attitude.  One  recalls  also  the  French  interest  in  Greece, 
and  the  French  indisposition  to  join  all  other  powers  in 
“ coercing  ” her  in  1886.  The  massacre  of  Jaffa,  again, 
was  savagely  inhuman,  but  the  army  which  committed  it 
would  not  have  destroyed  the  canal  of  Bruges.  Nor  is  it 
any  more  possible  to  fancy  the  contemporary  Irish  evic- 
tions taking  place  under  French  auspices,  than  it  is  to 
imagine  the  noyades  of  Nantes  conducted  by  Englishmen, 
unless  the  noyis  had  been  proved  guilty  of  some  offence 
against  positive  legality.  As  to  the  Revolution,  it  is  pos- 
sible, no  doubt,  to  say  much  in  excuse  of  its  violence,  its 
inhumanity,  and  its  aggression.  Mr.  John  Morley  has 
pointed  out,  in  reply  to  M.  Taine,  what  especial  justifica- 
tion the  French  Tiers  Etat  had  for  its  vengeance  on  the 


2 8o 


French  Traits 


noblesse  and  the  clergy.  To  the  last  the  king  and  his 
party  were  conspirators;  there  was  no  opportunity  for  a 
revolution  like  that  of  1688  in  England,  accomplished  only 
through  a change  of  dynasties.  And  in  1649  it  was  no 
harder  to  dispose  of  Charles  than  in  1793  it  was  of  Louis. 
Had  Charles  had  a court,  had  the  English  crown  reduced 
its  feudal  chiefs  to  courtiers,  had  England  aimed  at  the 
transformation  instead  of  the  mitigation  of  feudalism,  had 
London  been  Paris  in  a word,  the  taking  off  of  Charles 
would  have  been  less  decorous  and  less  solitary,  though  it 
could  not  have  been  more  cynical  and  brutal.  As  for 
aggression,  when  it  is  observed  that  France,  even  before 
Napoleon,  had  the  dream  of  succeeding  the  Roman 
Empire  in  “ assuring  to  herself  the  empire  of  the  world,” 
as  Mr.  Arnold  asserts,  the  fact  is  lost  sight  of  that  the 
very  existence  of  the  French  Republic  compelled  aggres- 
sion. Had  the  wars  been  carefully  defensive,  the  great 
cause  would  have  been  lost  and  the  Bourbons  restored. 
The  Republic  was  engaged  in  a life  and  death  struggle, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  defiant  it  would  have  been 
destroyed. 

After  all,  both  historically  and  essentially,  the  French 
revolutionary  spirit  means  devotion  to  reason.  Of  the 
two  great  maxims  of  the  modern  creed:  no  class  can  legis- 
late for  another,  and  legislation  should  conform  to  reason 
and  not  to  habit,  which  is  born  of  unreasoning  adjust- 
ments, the  French  excel  us  perhaps  in  believing  in  the 
second  as  firmly  as  they  do  in  the  first.  We  may  fairly 
say  in  explanation  that  our  conservatism  is  really  the 
clinging  to  a custom  and  habit  essentially  radical.  Our 
status  quo  is  the  Radical  hope  of  Europe.  We  have  no 
need  of  the  revolutionary  spirit,  since  reason  rather  than 
tradition  presided  in  the  counsels  crystallized  in  our  Con- 


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stitution  itself.  Content  and  unrest  mean  very  different 
things  here  and  abroad.  Our  party  of  change — called 
during  the  war  period  “ Radical  ” in  the  etymological 
sense  alone — has  really  thus  far  been  the  one  which  corre- 
sponds to  the  European  Right.  Like  the  European  Right 
it  stands  for  strong  government,  government  by  “ the 
best  people,”  centralization,  subsidies,  state  control  of 
education,  limitation  of  the  suffrage,  opposition  to  immi- 
gration. Should  the  popular  party  become  largely  pro- 
letarian, the  case  may  alter;  but  at  present  our  popular 
party  is  our  conservative  one,  and  the  fact  makes  it  impos- 
sible to  institute  a parallel  between  our  party  relations 
and  development  and  those  of  Europe.  But  this  very  fact 
leads  us  to  misconceive  the  European  revolutionary  spirit 
still  endeavoring  to  plant  the  standard  of  reason  in  the 
citadel  held  by  custom — a citadel  we  fortified  rationally  a 
century  ago.  It  leads  us  to  conceive  of  it  as  merely  tur- 
bulent, lawless,  unpractical. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  prone  to  reflect,  the  revolutionary 
spirit,  whatever  its  attendant  advantages,  has  inevitably 
the  effect  of  establishing  a crisis  en  permanence.  It  is  a 
force,  we  insist,  that  may  be  either  rigorously  repressed  or 
blindly  followed,  but  cannot  profitably  be  utilized.  To 
the  conservative  Anglo-Saxon  political  temperament,  it 
seems  to  mean  a degree  of  instability  inconsistent  with 
sound  political  growth.  We  cannot  help,  in  consequence, 
always  considering  the  political  situation  in  France  as  a 
spectacle  rather  than  a study.  What  interests  us  in  it  at 
present,  for  example,  is  solely  the  prospect  for  continu- 
ance of  the  present  parliamentary  regime.  But,  though  it 
would  be  idle  to  hazard  predictions  in  the  case  of  a peo- 
ple which  has  no  regard  for  precedent,  it  is,  I think,  clear 


282 


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that  whatever  changes  the  French  organic  law  is  destined 
to  undergo,  they  will  not  be  essentially  undemocratic. 
French  democracy  is,  as  I began  by  saying,  held  con- 
sciously as  an  ideal,  and  for  that  reason  alone  its  puis- 
sance has  the  promise  of  permanence.  “ It  was  never  any 
part  of  our  creed,”  says  Matthew  Arnold,  with  admirable 
candor,  “ that  the  great  right  and  blessedness  of  an  Irish- 
man, or  indeed  of  anybody  but  an  Englishman,  is  to  do  as 
he  likes,  and  we  have  no  scruple  at  all  about  abridging  if 
necessary  a non-Englishman’s  assertion  of  personal  lib- 
erty.” Compare  with  this  a dozen  sentences  to  be  found 
in  the  same  writer’s  ‘‘Friendship’s  Garland;”  such  as: 
“ They  [the  French]  were  unripe  for  the  task  they,  in  ’89, 
set  themselves  to  do;  and  yet  . . . they  left  their 

trace  in  half  the  beneficial  reforms  through  Europe;  and 
if  you  ask  how,  at  Naples,  a convent  became  a school,  or 
in  Ticino  an  intolerable  oligarchy  ceased  to  govern,  or  in 
Prussia  Stein  was  able  to  carry  his  land-reforms,  you  get 
one  answer:  The  French ! Till  modern  society  is  finally 
formed,  French  democracy  will  still  be  a power  in 
Europe.”  Beside  such  pertinence  as  this,  much  of  Mr. 
Lowell’s  famous  Birmingham  address  has  something  of  a 
post-prandial  flavor,  as  of  enunciations  essentially  de- 
tached and  undirected;—”  the  French  fallacy  that  a new 
system  of  government  could  be  ordered  like  a new  suit  of 
clothes,”  “ no  dithyrambic  affirmations  or  wire-drawn 
analyses  of  the  Rights  of  Man  would  serve,”  “ the  British 
Constitution  ...  is  essentially  democratic,”  “ Eng- 
land, indeed,  may  be  called  a monarchy  with  democratic 
tendencies,”  the  citation  from  Lord  Sherbrooke,  the  inev- 
itable allusion  to  M.  Zola,  the  eloquent  conclusion  that 
“ our  healing  is  not  in  the  storm  or  in  the  whirlwind,  it  is 
not  in  monarchies,  or  aristocracies,  or  democracies,  but 


Democracy 


28 


rather  in  the  still  small  voice  that  speaks  to  the  con- 
science and  the  heart!”  This  last  is  doubtless  very  true, 
but  for  an  address  on  “ Democracy  ” it  does  not,  I think, 
betray  that  enthusiasm  for  the  democratic  ideal  which  a 
French  orator  of  anything  like  Mr.  Lowell’s  eminence 
would  display.  It  has  a very  different  note,  a very  differ- 
ent tone  and  color  from  M.  Goblet,  for  example,  address- 
ing the  students  of  the  Sorbonne  on  the  same  subject. 
And  democracy  such  as  M.  Goblet’s  is  neither  extreme 
nor  exceptional  in  France  at  the  present  time,  it  is,  in 
fact,  so  general  as  largely  to  account  for  the  presence  at 
the  head  of  affairs  of  men  of  convictions  and  competent 
capacity — men  like  M.  Goblet,  that  is  to  say — instead  of 
those  saviours  of  society,  those  “ great  men  ” whose 
absence  in  the  political  life  of  both  France  and  America 
Mr.  Lowell  so  deeply  regrets. 

But  these  men  are  greatly  divided  among  themselves, 
they  have  not  that  commanding  personal  popularity  which 
insures  their  remaining  in  power,  they  are  surrounded  with 
difficulties.  The  Catholic  Church,  which  is  in  its  nature 
hostile  to  political  democracy,  is  a standing  menace.  So 
is  its  ally  the  monarchic  Right.  On  the  other  hand  there 
are  the  Radical  extremists,  with  their  tendency  to  entrust 
their  fortunes  to  an  individual  representative,  whose  rep- 
resentative character  may  easily  cease  when  he  ceases  to 
need  it.  Behind  all  is  the  constant  necessity  of  being 
ready  for  a European  war  of  proportions  which  the  imagi- 
nation only  can  prefigure.  Meantime  internal  democratic 
development  indubitably  goes  on,  and  it  is  a mistake  to 
fancy  that  it  would  show  political  wisdom  to  postpone 
what  we  call  “ changes  in  the  organic  law  ” till  the  more 
convenient  season  which  would  doubtless  have  its  own 
difficulties.  The  present  Constitution  has  never  been  sub- 


284 


French  Traits 


mitted  to  the  popular  judgment,  the  drift  of  feeling  has 
distinctly  been  in  favor  of  its  revision  for  years.  The 
questions  of  the  Concordat  and  of  communal  decentraliza- 
tion, for  example,  are  pressing  ones,  and  because  they  are 
from  the  nature  of  the  case  “ organic  ” questions,  to 
assume  that  discussion  of  them  indicates  instability  is 
rather  superficial.  Should  the  present  Constitution  be 
revised  in  these  respects,  we  should  of  course  hear  a good 
deal  of  French  political  fickleness  in  our  own  press,  and 
the  “ Spectator  ” would  have  another  article  on  “ The 
Fall  of  the  French  Republic.”  All  the  same,  Frenchmen 
would  still  reply  just  as  they  do  now,  that  the  instability 
of  their  documentary  constitutions  doesn’t  imply  the  vari- 
ation in  “ the  fundamental  law  ” we  take  it  to  mean,  and 
that  our  solemnity  in  the  matter  is  a little  pedantic;  that 
the  Code  Napoleon  would  still  subsist;  that  if  they  are 
not  as  much  attached  to  Republican  nomenclature  as  we 
are,  their  democracy  is  at  least  as  deeply  rooted;  that  in 
France  political  stability,  with  its  accompanying  danger 
of  political  stagnation,  is  by  no  means  the  basis  of  social 
order  and  progress;  that  the  state  not  being  a medium  but 
an  agent,  to  change  its  expression  when  you  wish  becomes 
merely  rational;  that  even  a dictatorship  would  with  them 
be  more  truly  popular  than  are  English  institutions;  that 
their  very  attitude  toward  “ organic  ” change  implies  the 
formulation  of  grievances  and  definite  propositions  for 
their  redress,  whereas  under  an  unwritten  constitution 
progress  is  not  only  slow,  but  accompanied  by  the  im- 
mense cost  involved  in  drifting  at  the  mercy  of  now  one 
and  now  the  other  of  two  opposite  political  temperaments, 
whose  preferences  are  never  formulated  with  anything  like 
precision;  and  that  the  formulation  of  ideas  is  one  of  the 
greatest  safeguards  of  popular  government. 


Democracy 


285 


With  our  comparatively  simple  national  politics,  due  in 
great  measure  to  the  autonomy  of  our  States,  it  is  difficult 
for  us  to  appreciate  the  great  complexity  of  French  poli- 
tics, and  the  number  and  variety  of  French  political  ques- 
tions. Speculation  concerning  them,  abundant  as  it  is 
among  us — for  France  is  a perpetually  attractive  spectacle 
to  even  our  sciolists — is  for  this  reason,  if  for  no  others, 
somewhat  barren.  But  there  is  one  clarifying  and  illu- 
minating consideration  which  it  is  especially  pertinent  to 
bear  in  mind.  French  differences  of  opinion  in  regard  to 
French  political  questions  are  in  the  highest  degree  prac- 
tical, rather  than,  as  we  imagine,  irreconcilable  antago- 
nisms of  sentiment,  tradition,  temperament,  passion.  “ The 
internal  quarrels  which  seem  so  profoundly  to  disturb  and 
distract  us  are  not,  as  Europe  may  assume,  the  result  of 
an  anemic  fever,”  said  M.  Floquet  at  Marseilles  recently, 
“ but  on  the  contrary,  a proof  of  superabundant  vitality, 
and,  so  to  say,  a passing  convulsion  of  political  growth.” 
On  what  a high  key  of  statesmanlike  color,  of  patriotic 
courage,  that  is  said!  The  division  of  French  Republicans 
into  not  only  radicals  and  conservatives,  but  into  subsidiary 
groups,  is  commonly  misinterpreted  by  us  in  two  ways. 
It  is  supposed  in  the  first  place  to  indicate  an  inaptitude 
for,  and  restiveness  under,  democratic  institutions  — a 
native,  constitutional  repugnance  to  self-government.  On 
the  contrary,  it  attests  the  French  disposition  toward 
democracy,  the  French  belief  in  it,  and  fearlessness  about 
its  perils.  The  absence  in  France  of  any  hearty  and 
instinctive  subscription  to  the  ethics  of  what  Anglo-Saxons 
know  and  worship  as  party  government,  witnesses,  if  not 
a remarkable  individual  independence,  at  any  rate  a far 
livelier  interest  in,  a far  greater  and  more  intelligent 
devotion  to  principles  of  political  philosophy,  than  are 


286 


French  Traits 


illustrated  by  party  sheep  following  some  masterful  per- 
sonality as  a bell-wether,  which  has  generally  been  the 
case  in  England,  or  by  the  tyranny  of  the  caucus  with  us. 
In  England,  the  rare  political  independent  is  apt  to  be 
grotesque.  With  us  the  tradition  of  party  fealty  has  noto- 
riously been  carried  by  that  party  which  has  no  political 
principles,  and  is  based  on  interests  and  sentiment,  to  the 
ridiculous  length  of  assuming  the  independent  to  be  a 
negative  instead  of  a positive  force,  a passive  and  tem- 
peramental, rather  than  an  active  and  philosophic,  person. 
The  far  larger  number  of  French  independents,  their  vari- 
ety, their  activity,  their  eminence  and  influence,  certainly 
indicate  a democracy  not  only  ingrained  but  very  highly 
developed.  And  indeed,  since  the  Revolution,  it  has  been 
developing  very  constantly,  though  not  always  visibly, 
until  it  has  now  reached  a stage  of  differentiation  which 
makes  strict  party  government  seem  very  oligarchical  in 
contrast. 

In  the  second  place,  we  misinterpret  the  existence  of 
“ groups  ” in  the  French  Chamber  as  evidence  of  a French 
“ lack  of  political  sense.”  That  is  a phrase  constantly 
recurring  in  those  of  our  journals  partially  au  courant  with 
French  affairs,  that  is  to.  say,  our  only  journals  thus  au 
coura?it  at  all.  Whenever  anything  happens  distinctly 
traceable  to  the  excess,  or  even  the  exercise,  of  the  demo- 
cratic instinct,  this  phrase  appears  as  if  issuing  from  the 
lumber-room  of  perfunctory  political  Toryism.  French 
political  independence  has  undoubtedly  its  weak  side.  It 
was  certainly  one  of  Gambetta’s  distinctions  that  he  per- 
ceived this  so  clearly  and  labored  so  strenuously  to  the 
end  of  party  unity.  In  crises,  manifestly,  disunion  is,  if 
not  fatal,  highly  dangerous;  and  though  French  Republi- 
can independence  does  not  contemplate  showing  itself 


Democracy 


287 


recalcitrant  in  crises,  it  is  certainly  true  that  the  habits 
formed  and  the  passions  excited  by  internal  dissension  in 
ordinary  times  of  routine  legislation,  so  to  speak,  have  a 
powerful  disintegrating  effect,  that  might  easily  go  so  far 
as  to  rob  a crisis  of  that  crystallizing  power  which  French 
Republicans  ascribe  to  it,  and  on  which  they  so  confi- 
dently rely.  It  is  also  true  that  Republican  independence 
has  done  something  to  keep  alive  that  standing  menace  to 
the  Republic,  the  conservative  and  clerical  Right.  Had 
radicalism  exhibited  a discretion  such  as  in  no  country  in 
the  world  it  has  ever  shown,  the  conservative  ranks  might 
have  become  permanently  thinned,  owing  to  the  disap- 
pearance of  traditional  distrust  before  the  continued 
absence  of  any  visible  reason  for  its  existence.  Had  M. 
Clemenceau,  for  example,  not  seceded  from  the  Gambet- 
tist  ranks  upon  the  question  of  centralization,  very  likely 
the  French  Left  would  have  been  better  able  to-day  than 
it  is  to  give  satisfactory  guarantees  for  the  continuance  of 
the  salutary  republican  form  as  well  as  of  democratic  sub- 
stance in  the  government  of  the  nation.  The  monarchists 
might  have  been  less  able  to  nourish  their  organization 
upon  the  vague  hopes  derived  from  the  spectacle  of  Re- 
publican differences.  They  might  possibly  have  become 
discouraged.  But  this  is  surely  speculative  and,  mani- 
festly, for  a great  party  with  a large  majority  to  resign 
itself  to  purely  defensive  tactics  until  Bourbons  are  driven 
into  learning  or  forgetting  something,  contenting  itself 
meanwhile  with  what  many  of  its  members  believed  to  be 
the  shadow  without  the  substance  of  a Republic;  to  delay 
needed  and  urgent  reforms  out  of  a timorous  regard  for 
the  tactics  of  parliamentary  strategy;  to  look  at  every 
question  from  an  indirect  and  party,  instead  of  a directly 
patriotic,  point  of  view — to  do  this  would  clearly  be  to 


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paralyze  every  beneficent  activity  belonging  to  govern- 
ment by  discussion.  It  might  be  diplomatic,  but  it  would 
be  as  little  a demonstration  of  “political  sense”  as  it 
would  be  democratic. 

But  whatever  character  the  further  evolution  of  the 
French  nation  may  assume,  whatever  fate  may  have  in 
store  for  the  most  sentient,  the  most  organic,  the  most 
civilized,  the  most  socially  developed  people  of  the  mod- 
ern wrorld,  it  is  certain  that,  for  a long  time  to  come,  “ the 
country  of  Europe  in  which  the  people  is  most  alive  ” — 
according  to  Matthew  Arnold’s  acute  synthesis  of  the 
results  of  the  Revolution— the  country  of  Europe  to  which 
we  owe  it  that  the  Declaration  is  the  definition  rather  than 
the  source  of  our  national  and  individual  rights,  will 
remain  for  Americans,  if  not  the  most  exemplary,  at  least 
the  most  animating  figure  among  the  European  states. 
And  however  tradition,  prejudice,  ignorance,  and  a differ- 
ent language  may  obscure  our  vision,  we  shall  never  fail 
to  find  politically  instructive,  in  proportion  to  our  intelli- 
gence* and  the  preservation  of  our  own  democratic  in- 
stincts, that  one  of  the  European  powers  the  vast  majority 
of  whose  citizens — not  being  “ subjects  ” in  either  a real 
or  a nominal  sense — instinctively  echo  La  Bruyere’s  senti- 
ment which  I have  already  cited:  “ Faut-il  opter?  Je 
veux  etre  peuple!” 


CHAPTER  X 


NEW  YORK  AFTER  PARIS 

No  American,  not  a commercial  or  otherwise  hardened 
traveller,  can  have  a soul  so  dead  as  to  be  incapable  of 
emotion  when,  on  his  return  from  a long  trip  abroad,  he 
catches  sight  of  the  low-lying  and  insignificant  Long 
Island  coast.  One’s  excitement  begins,  indeed,  with  the 
pilot-boat.  The  pilot-boat  is  the  first  concrete  symbol  of 
those  native  and  normal  relations  with  one’s  fellow-men, 
which  one  has  so  long  observed  in  infinitely  varied  mani- 
festation abroad,  but  always  as  a spectator  and  a stran- 
ger, and  which  one  is  now  on  the  eve  of  sharing  himself. 
As  she  comes  up  swiftly,  white  and  graceful,  drops  her 
pilot,  crosses  the  steamer’s  bows,  tacks,  and  picks  up  her 
boat  in  the  foaming  wake,  she  presents  a spectacle  beside 
which  the  most  picturesque  Mediterranean  craft,  with  col- 
ored sails  and  lazy  evolutions,  appear  mistily  in  the  mem- 
ory as  elements  of  a feeble  and  conventional  ideal.  The 
ununiformed  pilot  clambers  on  board,  makes  his  way  to 
the  bridge,  and  takes  command  with  an  equal  lack  of 
French  manner  and  of  English  affectation  distinctly  palpa- 
ble to  the  sense,  sharpened  by  long  absence  into  observing 
native  characteristics  as  closely  as  foreign  ones.  If  the 
season  be  right  the  afternoon  is  bright,  the  range  of  vis- 
ion apparently  limitless,  the  sky  nearly  cloudless  and,  by 
contrast  with  the  European  firmament,  almost  colorless, 
the  July  sun  such  as  no  Parisian  or  Londoner  ever  saw. 


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The  French  reproach  us  for  having  no  word  for  “ patrie  ” 
as  distinct  from  “ pays;”  we  have  the  thing  at  all  events, 
and  cherish  it,  and  it  needs  only  the  proximity  of  the  for- 
eigner, from  whom  in  general  we  are  so  widely  separated, 
to  give  our  patriotism  a tinge  of  the  veriest  chauvinism 
that  exists  in  France  itself. 

We  fancy  the  feeling  old-fashioned,  and  imagine  ours  to 
be  the  most  cosmopolitan,  the  least  prejudiced  tempera- 
ment in  the  world.  It  is  reasonable  that  it  should  be. 
The  extreme  sensitiveness  noticed  in  us  by  all  foreign 
observers  during  the  ante-bellum  epoch,  and  ascribed  by 
Tocqueville  to  our  self-distrust,  is  naturally  inconsistent 
with  our  position  and  circumstances  to-day.  A popula- 
tion greater  than  that  of  any  of  the  great  nations,  isolated 
by  the  most  enviable  geographical  felicity  in  the  world 
from  the  narrowing  influences  of  international  jealousy 
apparent  to  every  American  who  travels  in  Europe,  is 
increasingly  less  concerned  at  criticism  than  a struggling 
provincial  republic  of  half  its  size.  And  along  with  our 
self-confidence  and  our  carelessness  of  “ abroad,”  it  is 
only  with  the  grosser  element  among  us  that  national  con- 
ceit has  deepened;  in  general,  we  are  apt  to  fancy  we 
have  become  cosmopolitan  in  proportion  as  we  have  lost 
our  provincialism.  With  us  surely  the  individual  has  not 
withered,  and  if  the  world  has  become  more  and  more  to 
him,  it  is  because  it  is  the  world  at  large  and  not  the  pent- 
up  confines  of  his  own  country’s  history  and  extent.  “ La 
patrie”  in  danger  would  be  quickly  enough  rescued — 
there  is  no  need  to  prove  that  over  again,  even  to  our 
own  satisfaction;  but  in  general  “ la  patrie  ” not  being  in 
any  danger,  being  on  the  contrary  apparently  on  the  very 
crest  of  the  wave  of  the  world,  it  is  felt  not  to  need  much 
of  one’s  active  consideration,  and  passively  indeed  is 


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291 


viewed  by  many  people,  probably,  as  a comfortable  and 
gigantic  contrivance  for  securing  a free  field  in  which  the 
individual  may  expand  and  develop.  “ America,”  says 
Emerson,  “ America  is  Opportunity.”  After  all,  the 
average  American  of  the  present  day  says,  a country 
stands  or  falls  by  the  number  of  properly  expanded  and 
developed  individuals  it  possesses.  But  the  happening  of 
any  one  of  a dozen  things  unexpectedly  betrays  that  all 
this  cosmopolitanism  is  in  great  measure,  and  so  far  as 
sentiment  is  concerned,  a veneer  and  a disguise.  Such  a 
happening  is  the  very  change  from  blue  water  to  gray 
that  announces  to  the  returning  American  the  nearness  of 
that  country  which  he  sometimes  thinks  he  prizes  more  for 
what  it  stands  for  than  for  itself.  It  is  not,  he  then  feels 
with  a sudden  flood  of  emotion,  that  America  is  home,  but 
that  home  is  America.  America  comes  suddenly  to  mean 
what  it  never  meant  before. 

Unhappily  for  this  exaltation,  ordinary  life  is  not  com- 
posed of  emotional  crises.  It  is  ordinary  life  with  a ven- 
geance which  one  encounters  in  issuing  from  the  steamer 
dock  and  facing  again  his  native  city.  Paris  never  looked 
so  lovely,  so  exquisite  to  the  sense  as  it  now  appears  in 
the  memory.  All  that  Parisian  regularity,  order,  decorum, 
and  beauty  into  which,  although  a stranger,  your  own 
activities  fitted  so  perfectly  that  you  were  only  half-con- 
scious of  its  existence,  was  not,  then,  merely  normal, 
wholly  a matter  of  course.  Emerging  into  West  Street, 
amid  the  solicitations  of  hackmen,  the  tinkling  jog-trot  of 
the  most  ignoble  horse-cars  you  have  seen  since  leaving 
home,  the  dry  dust  blowing  into  your  eyes,  the  gaping 
black  holes  of  broken  pavements,  the  unspeakable  filth, 
the  line  of  red  brick  buildings  prematurely  decrepit,  the 
sagging  multitude  of  telegraph  wires,  the  clumsy  electric 


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lights  depending  before  the  beer  saloon  and  the  groggery, 
the  curious  confusion  of  spruceness  and  squalor  in  the 
aspect  of  these  latter,  which  also  seem  legion — confront- 
ing all  this  for  the  first  time  in  three  years,  say,  you 
think  with  wonder  of  your  disappointment  at  not  finding 
the  Tuileries  Gardens  a mass  of  flowers,  and  with  a blush 
of  the  times  you  have  told  Frenchmen  that  New  York  was 
very  much  like  Paris.  New  York  is  at  this  moment  the 
most  foreign-looking  city  you  have  ever  seen;  in  going 
abroad  the  American  discounts  the  unexpected;  returning 
after  the  insensible  orientation  of  Europe,  the  contrast 
with  things  recently  familiar  is  prodigious,  because  one  is 
so  entirely  unprepared  for  it.  One  thinks  to  be  at  home, 
and  finds  himself  at  the  spectacle.  New  York  is  less  like 
any  European  city  than  any  European  city  is  like  any 
other.  It  is  distinguished  from  them  all — even  from  Lon- 
don— by  the  ignoble  character  of  the  res  public  a , and  the 
refuge  of  taste,  care,  wealth,  pride,  self-respect  even,  in 
private  and  personal  regions.  A splendid  carriage,  liver- 
ied servants  without  and  Paris  dresses  within,  rattling 
over  the  scandalous  paving,  splashed  by  the  neglected 
mud,  catching  the  rusty  drippings  of  the  hideous  elevated 
railway,  wrenching  its  axle  in  the  tram-track  in  avoiding  a 
mountainous  wagon  load  of  commerce  on  this  hand  and 
a garbage  cart  on  that,  caught  in  a jam  of  horse-cars  and 
a blockade  of  trucks,  finally  depositing  its  dainty  freight 
to  pick  its  way  across  a sidewalk  eloquent  of  official  neg- 
lect and  private  contumely  to  a shop  door  or  a residence 
stoop — such  a contrast  as  this  sets  us  off  from  Europe 
very  definitely  and  in  a very  marked  degree. 

There  is  no  palpable  New  York  in  the  sense  in  which 
there  is  a Paris,  a Vienna,  a Milan.  You  can  touch  it  at 
no  point.  It  is  not  even  ocular.  There  is  instead  a Fifth 


New  York  after  Paris 


2 93 


Avenue,  a Broadway,  a Central  Park,  a Chatham  Square. 
How  they  have  dwindled,  by  the  way.  Fifth  Avenue 
might  be  any  one  of  a dozen  London  streets  in  the  first 
impression  it  makes  on  the  retina  and  leaves  on  the  mind. 
The  opposite  side  of  Madison  Square  is  but  a step  away. 
The  spacious  hall  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  has  shrunk 
to  stifling  proportions.  Thirty-fourth  Street  is  a lane; 
the  City  Hall  a band-box;  the  Central  Park  a narrow  strip 
of  elegant  landscape  whose  lateral  limitations  are  con- 
stantly forced  upon  the  sense  by  the  Lenox  Library  on 
one  side  and  a monster  apartment  house  on  the  other. 
The  American  fondness  for  size — for  pure  bigness — needs 
explanation,  it  appears;  we  care  for  size,  but  inartisti- 
cally;  we  care  nothing  for  proportion,  which  is  what  makes 
size  count.  Everything  is  on  the  same  scale;  there  is  no 
play,  no  movement.  An  exception  should  be  made  in 
favor  of  the  big  business  building  and  the  apartment  house 
which  have  arisen  within  a few  years,  and  which  have 
greatly  accentuated  the  grotesqueness  of  the  city’s  sky- 
line as  seen  from  either  the  New  Jersey  or  the  Long 
Island  shore.  They  are  perhaps  rather  high  than  big; 
many  of  them  were  built  before  the  authorities  noticed 
them  and  followed  unequally  in  the  steps  of  other  civil- 
ized municipal  governments,  from  that  of  ancient  Rome 
down,  in  prohibiting  the  passing  of  a fixed  limit.  But 
bigness  has  also  evidently  been  one  of  their  architectonic 
motives,  and  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  they  are  so  far  out 
of  scale  with  the  surrounding  buildings  as  to  avoid  the 
usual  commonplace,  only  by  creating  a positively  disa- 
greeable effect.  The  aspect  of  Fifty-seventh  Street  be- 
tween Broadway  and  Seventh  Avenue,  for  example,  is 
certainly  that  of  the  world  upside  down:  a Gothic  church 
utterly  concealed,  not  to  say  crushed,  by  contiguous  flats, 


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and  confronted  by  the  overwhelming  “ Osborne,”  which 
towers  above  anything  in  the  neighborhood,  and  perhaps 
makes  the  most  powerful  impression  that  the  returned 
traveller  receives  during  his  first  week  or  two  of  strange 
sensations.  Yet  the  “Osborne’s”  dimensions  are  not 
very  different  from  those  of  the  Arc  de  I’Etoile.  It  is 
true  it  does  not  face  an  avenue  of  majestic  buildings  a 
mile  and  a half  long  and  two  hundred  and  thirty  feet 
wide,  but  the  association  of  these  two  structures,  one  a 
private  enterprise  and  the  other  a public  monument, 
together  with  the  obvious  suggestions  of  each,  furnish  a 
not  misleading  illustration  of  both  the  spectacular  and  the 
moral  contrast  between  New  York  and  Paris,  as  it  appears 
unduly  magnified  no  doubt  to  the  sense  surprised  to  notice 
it  at  all. 

Still  another  reason  for  the  foreign  aspect  of  the  New 
Yorker’s  native  city  is  the  gradual  withdrawing  of  the 
American  element  into  certain  quarters,  its  transformation 
or  essential  modification  in  others,  and  in  the  rest  the 
presence  of  the  lees  of  Europe.  At  every  step  you  are 
forced  to  realize  that  New  York  is  the  second  Irish  and 
the  third  or  fourth  German  city  in  the  world.  However 
great  our  success  in  drilling  this  foreign  contingent  of  our 
social  army  into  order  and  reason  and  self-respect — and  it 
is  not  to  be  doubted  that  this  success  gives  us  a distinc- 
tion wholly  new  in  history — nevertheless  our  effect  upon 
its  members  has  been  in  the  direction  of  development 
rather  than  of  assimilation.  We  have  given  them  our 
opportunity,  permitted  them  the  expansion  denied  them  in 
their  own  several  feudalities,  made  men  of  serfs,  demon- 
strated the  utility  of  self-government  under  the  most  try- 
ing conditions,  proved  the  efficacy  of  our  elastic  institu- 
tions on  a scale  truly  grandiose;  but  evidently,  so  far  as 


New  York  after  Paris 


295 


New  York  is  concerned,  we  have  done  this  at  the  sacrifice 
of  a distinct  and  obvious  nationality.  To  an  observant 
sense  New  York  is  nearly  as  little  national  as  Port  Said. 
It  contrasts  absolutely  in  this  respect  with  Paris,  whose 
assimilating  power  is  prodigious;  every  foreigner  in  Paris 
eagerly  seeks  Parisianization. 

Ocularly,  therefore,  the  “ note  ” of  New  York  seems 
that  of  characterless  individualism.  The  monotony  of  the 
chaotic  composition  and  movement  is,  paradoxically,  its 
most  abiding  impression.  And  as  the  whole  is  destitute 
of  definiteness,  of  distinction,  the  parts  are,  correspond- 
ingly, individually  insignificant.  Where  in  the  world  are 
all  the  types?  one  asks  one’s  self  in  renewing  his  old  walks 
and  desultory  wanderings.  Where  is  the  New  York  coun- 
terpart of  that  astonishing  variety  of  types  which  makes 
Paris  what  it  is  morally  and  pictorially,  the  Paris  of  Balzac 
as  well  as  the  Paris  of  M.  Jean  Beraud  ? Of  a sudden  the 
lack  of  nationality  in  our  familiar  literature  and  art  be- 
comes luminously  explicable.  One  perceives  why  Mr. 
Howells  is  so  successful  in  confining  himself  to  the  sim- 
plest, broadest,  most  representative  representatives,  why 
Mr.  James  goes  abroad  invariably  for  his  mise-en-scene, 
and  often  for  his  characters,  why  Mr.  Reinhart  lives  in 
Paris,  and  Mr.  Abbey  in  London.  New  York  is  this  and 
that,  it  is  incontestably  unlike  any  other  great  city,  but 
compared  with  Paris,  its  most  impressive  trait  is  its  lack 
of  that  organic  quality  which  results  from  variety  of  types. 
Thus  compared,  it  seems  to  have  only  the  variety  of  indi- 
viduals which  results  in  monotony.  It  is  the  difference 
between  noise  and  music.  Pictorially,  the  general  aspect 
of  New  York  is  such  that  the  mind  speedily  takes  refuge 
in  insensitiveness.  Its  expansiveness  seeks  exercise  in 
other  directions — business,  dissipation,  study,  aestheticism, 


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politics.  The  life  of  the  senses  is  no  longer  possible. 
This  is  why  one’s  sense  for  art  is  so  stimulated  by  going 
abroad,  and  one’s  sense  for  art  in  its  freest,  frankest,  most 
universal  and  least  special,  intense  and  enervated  develop- 
ment is  especially  exhilarated  by  going  to  Paris.  It  is 
why,  too,  on  one’s  return  one  can  note  the  gradual  decline 
of  his  sensitiveness,  his  severity — the  progressive  atrophy 
of  a sense  no  longer  called  into  exercise.  “ I had  no  con- 
ception before,”  said  a Chicago  broker  to  me  one  day  in 
Paris,  with  intelligent  eloquence,  “ of  a finished  city!” 
Chicago  undoubtedly  presents  a greater  contrast  to  Paris 
than  does  New  York,  and  so,  perhaps,  better  prepares  one 
to  appreciate  the  Parisian  quality,  but  the  returned  New 
Yorker  cannot  fail  to  be  deeply  impressed  with  the  finish, 
the  organic  perfection,  the  elegance,  and  reserve  of  the 
Paris  mirrored  in  his  memory.  Is  it  possible  that  the 
uniformity,  the  monotony  of  Paris  architecture,  the  prose 
note  in  Parisian  taste,  should  once  have  weighed  upon  his 
spirit?  Riding  once  on  the  top  of  a Paris  tramway, 
betraying  an  understanding  of  English  by  reading  an 
American  newspaper,  that  sub-consciousness  of  moral  iso- 
lation which  the  foreigner  feels  in  Paris  as  elsewhere,  was 
suddenly  and  completely  destroyed  by  my  next  neighbor, 
who  remarked  with  contemptuous  conviction  and  a Man- 
hattan accent:  “When  you’ve  seen  one  block  of  this 
infernal  town  you’ve  seen  it  all!”  He  felt  sure  of  sympa- 
thy in  advance.  Probably  few  New  Yorkers  would  have 
differed  with  him.  The  universal  light  stone  and  brown 
paint,  the  wide  sidewalks,  the  asphalt  pavement,  the 
indefinitely  multiplied  kiosks,  the  prevalence  of  a few 
marked  kinds  of  vehicles,  the  uniformed  workmen  and 
workwomen,  the  infinite  reduplication,  in  a word,  of  easily 
recognized  types,  is  at  first  mistaken  by  the  New  Yorker 


New  York  after  Paris 


297 


for  that  dead  level  of  uniformity  which  is,  of  all  things  in 
the  world,  the  most  tiresome  to  him  in  his  own  city. 
After  a time,  however,  he  begins  to  realize  three  impor- 
tant facts:  In  the  first  place  these  phenomena,  which  so 
vividly  force  themselves  on  his  notice  that  their  reduplica- 
tion strikes  him  more  than  their  qualities,  are  nevertheless 
of  a quality  altogether  unexampled  in  his  experience  for 
fitness  and  agreeableness;  in  the  second  place  they  are 
details  of  a whole,  members  of  an  organism,  and  not  they, 
but  the  city  which  they  compose,  the  “ finished  city  ” of 
the  acute  Chicagoan,  is  the  spectacle;  in  the  third  place 
they  serve  as  a background  for  the  finest  group  of  monu- 
ments in  the  world.  On  his  return  he  perceives  these 
things  with  a melancholy  a non  lucendo  luminousness. 
The  dead  level  of  Murray  Hill  uniformity  he  finds  the 
most  agreeable  aspect  in  the  city. 

And  the  reason  is  that  Paris  has  habituated  him  to  the 
exquisite,  the  rational,  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  that 
organic  spectacle  a “finished  city,”  far  more  than  that 
Murray  Hill  is  respectable  and  appropriate,  and  that 
almost  any  other  prospect,  except  in  spots  of  very  limited 
area  which  emphasize  the  surrounding  ugliness,  is  acutely 
displeasing.  This  latter  is  certainly  very  true.  We  have 
long  frankly  reproached  ourselves  with  having  no  art 
commensurate  with  our  distinction  in  other  activities, 
resignedly  attributing  the  lack  to  our  hitherto  necessary 
material  preoccupation.  But  what  we  are  really  account- 
ing for  in  this  way  is  our  lack  of  Titians  and  Bramantes. 
We  are  for  the  most  part  quite  unconscious  of  the  charac- 
ter of  the  American  aesthetic  substratum,  so  to  speak.  As 
a matter  of  fact,  we  do  far  better  in  the  production  of 
striking  artistic  personalities  than  we  do  in  the  general 
medium  of  taste  and  culture.  We  figure  well  invariably 


298 


French  Traits 


at  the  Salon . At  home  the  artist  is  simply  either  driven  in 
upon  himself,  or  else  awarded  by  a naive  clientele , an  emi- 
nence so  far  out  of  perspective  as  to  result  unfortunately 
both  for  him  and  for  the  community.  He  pleases  himself, 
follows  his  own  bent,  and  prefers  salience  to  conformabil- 
ity  for  his  work,  because  his  chief  aim  is  to  make  an 
effect.  This  is  especially  true  of  those  of  our  architects 
who  have  ideas.  But  these  are  the  exceptions,  of  course, 
and  the  general  aspect  of  the  city  is  characterized  by 
something  far  less  agreeable  than  mere  lack  of  symmetry; 
it  is  characterized  mainly  by  an  all-pervading  bad  taste  in 
every  detail  into  which  the  element  of  art  enters  or  should 
enter — that  is  to  say,  nearly  everything  that  meets  the  eye. 

However,  on  the  other  hand,  Parisian  uniformity  may 
depress  exuberance,  it  is  the  condition  and  often  the  cause 
of  the  omnipresent  good  taste.  Not  only  is  it  true  that, 
as  Mr.  Hamerton  remarks,  “ in  the  better  quarters  of  the 
city  a building  hardly  ever  rises  from  the  ground  unless  it 
has  been  designed  by  some  architect  who  knows  what  art 
is,  and  endeavors  to  apply  it  to  little  things  as  well  as 
great;”  but  it  is  equally  true  that  the  national  sense  of 
form  expresses  itself  in  every  appurtenance  of  life  as  well 
as  in  the  masses  and  details  of  architecture.  In  New 
York  our  noisy  diversity  not  only  prevents  any  effect  of 
ensemble  and  makes,  as  I say,  the  old  commonplace  brown 
stone  regions  the  most  reposeful  and  rational  prospects  of 
the  city,  but  it  precludes  also,  in  a thousand  activities  and 
aspects,  the  operation  of  that  salutary  constraint  and  con- 
formity without  which  the  most  acutely  sensitive  individ- 
uality inevitably  declines  to  a lower  level  of  form  and 
taste.  La  mode , for  example,  seems  scarcely  to  exist  at 
all;  or  at  any  rate  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the  chimney- 
pot hat  and  the  tournure.  The  dude,  it  is  true,  has  been 
developed  within  a few  years,  but  his  distinguishing  trait 


New  York  after  Paris 


299 


of  personal  extinction  has  had  much  less  success  and  is 
destined  to  a much  shorter  life  than  his  appellation,  which 
has  wholly  lost  its  original  significance  in  gaining  its  pres- 
ent popularity.  Every  woman  one  meets  in  the  street  has 
a different  bonnet.  Every  street  car  contains  a millinery 
museum.  And  the  mass  of  them  may  be  judged  after  the 
circumstance  that  one  of  the  most  fashionable  Fifth  Ave- 
nue modistes  flaunts  a sign  of  enduring  brass  announcing 
“ English  Round  Hats  and  Bonnets.”  The  enormous 
establishments  of  ready-made  men’s  clothing  seem  not  yet 
to  have  made  their  destined  impression  in  the  direction  of 
uniformity.  The  contrast  in  dress  of  the  working  classes 
with  those  of  Paris  is  as  conspicuously  unfortunate  aesthet- 
ically, as  politically  and  socially  it  may  be  significant; 
ocularly,  it  is  a substitution  of  a cheap,  faded,  and  ragged 
imitation  of  bourgeois  costume  for  the  marvel  of  neatness 
and  propriety  which  composes  the  uniform  of  the  Parisian 
ouvrier  and  ouvriere.  Broadway  below  Tenth  Street  is  a 
forest  of  signs  which  obscure  the  thoroughfare,  conceal 
the  buildings,  overhang  the  sidewalks,  and  exhibit  sev- 
erally and  collectively  a taste  in  harmony  with  the  Teu- 
tonic and  Semitic  enterprise  which,  almost  exclusively, 
they  attest.  The  shop-windows’  show,  which  is  one  of 
the  great  spectacles  of  Paris,  is  niggard  and  shabby;  that 
of  Philadelphia  has  considerably  more  interest,  that  of 
London  nearly  as  much.  Our  clumsy  coinage  and  countri- 
fied currency;  our  eccentric  book-bindings;  that  class  of 
our  furniture  and  interior  decoration  which  may  be  de- 
scribed as  American  rococo;  that  multifariously  horrible 
machinery  devised  for  excluding  flies  from  houses  and 
preventing  them  from  alighting  on  dishes,  for  substituting 
a draught  of  air  for  stifling  heat,  for  relieving  an  entire 
population  from  that  surplusage  of  old-fashioned  breeding 
involved  in  shutting  doors,  for  rolling  and  rattling  change 


3°° 


French  Traits 


in  shops,  for  enabling  you  to  “ put  only  the  exact  fare  in 
the  box;”  the  racket  of  pneumatic  tubes,  of  telephones, 
of  aerial  trains;  the  practice  of  reticulating  pretentious 
fagades  with  fire-escapes  in  lieu  of  fire-proof  construction; 
the  vast  mass  of  our  nickel-plated  paraphernalia;  our  zinc 
cemetery  monuments;  our  comic  valentines  and  serious 
Christmas  cards,  and  grocery  labels,  and  ■“  fancy  ” job- 
printing and  theatre  posters;  our  conspicuous  cuspidores 
and  our  conspicuous  need  of  more  of  them;  the  “ tone  ” 
of  many  articles  in  our  most  popular  journals,  their  refer- 
ences to  each  other,  their  illustrations;  the  Sunday  pano- 
rama of  shirt-sleeved  ease  and  the  week-day  fatigue  cos- 
tume of  curl  papers  and  “ Mother  Hubbards  ” general  in 
some  quarters;  our  sumptuous  new  bar-rooms,  decorated 
perhaps  on  the  principle  that  le  mauvais  goilt  mine  an  crime 
— all  these  phenomena,  the  list  of  which  might  be  indefi- 
nitely extended,  are  so  many  witnesses  of  a general  taste, 
public  and  private,  which  differs  cardinally  from  that 
prevalent  in  Paris. 

In  fine,  the  material  spectacle  of  New  York  is  such  that 
at  last,  with  some  anxiety,  one  turns  from  the  external 
vileness  of  every  prospect  to  seek  solace  in  the  pleasure 
that  man  affords.  But  even  after  the  wholesome  Ameri- 
can reaction  has  set  in,  and  your  appetite  for  the  life  of 
the  senses  is  starved  into  indifference  for  what  begins  to 
seem  to  you  an  unworthy  ideal;  after  you  are  patriotically 
readjusted  and  feel  once  more  the  elation  of  living  in  the 
future  owing  to  the  dearth  of  sustenance  in  the  present — 
you  are  still  at  the  mercy  of  perceptions  too  keenly  sharp- 
ened by  your  Paris  sojourn  to  permit  blindness  to  the  fact 
that  Paris  and  New  York  contrast  as  strongly  in  moral 
atmosphere  as  in  material  aspect.  You  become  contem- 
plative, and  speculate  pensively  as  to  the  character  and 
quality  of  those  native  and  normal  conditions,  those  Rela- 


New  York  after  Paris 


301 


tions,  which  finally  you  have  definitely  resumed.  What  is 
it — that  vague  and  pervasive  moral  contrast  which  the 
American  feels  so  potently  on  his  return  from  abroad? 
How  can  we  define  that  apparently  undefinable  difference 
which  is  only  the  more  sensible  for  being  so  elusive? 
Book  after  book  has  been  written  about  Europe  from  the 
American  standpoint — about  America  from  the  European 
standpoint.  None  of  them  has  specified  what  every  one 
has  experienced.  The  spectacular  and  the  material  con- 
trasts are  easily  enough  characterized,  and  it  is  only  the 
unreflecting  or  the  superficial  who  exaggerate  the  impor- 
tance of  them.  We  are  by  no  means  at  the  mercy  of  our 
appreciation  of  Parisian  spectacle,  of  the  French  machin- 
ery of  life.  We  miss  or  we  do  not  miss  the  Salon  Carre, 
the  view  of  the  south  transept  of  Notre  Dame  as  one 
descends  the  rue  St.  Jacques,  the  Theatre  Franpais,  the 
concerts,  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  the  excursions  to 
the  score  of  charming  suburban  places,  the  library  at  the 
corner,  the  convenient  cheap  cab,  the  manners  of  the  peo- 
ple, the  quiet,  the  climate,  the  constant  entertainment  of 
the  senses.  We  have  in  general  too  much  work  to  do  to 
waste  much  time  in  regretting  these  things.  In  general, 
work  is  by  natural  selection  so  invariable  a concomitant 
of  our  unrivalled  opportunity  to  work  profitably,  that  it 
absorbs  our  energies  so  far  as  this  palpable  sphere  is  con- 
cerned. But  what  is  it  that  throughout  the  hours  of  busi- 
est work  and  closest  application,  as  well  as  in  the  preced- 
ing and  following  moments  of  leisure  and  the  occasional 
intervals  of  relaxation,  makes  every  one  vaguely  perceive 
the  vast  moral  difference  between  life  here  at  home  and 
life  abroad — notably  life  in  France?  What  is  the  subtle 
influence  pervading  the  moral  atmosphere  in  New  York, 
which  so  markedly  distinguishes  what  we  call  life  here 
from  life  in  Paris  or  even  in  Pennedepie? 


302 


French  Traits 


It  is,  I think,  distinctly  traceable  to  the  intense  individ- 
ualism which  prevails  among  us.  Magnificent  results  have 
followed  our  devotion  to  this  force;  incontestably,  we 
have  spared  ourselves  both  the  acute  and  the  chronic 
misery  for  which  the  tyranny  of  society  over  its  constitu- 
ent parts  is  directly  responsible.  We  have,  moreover,  in 
this  way  not  only  freed  ourselves  from  the  tyranny  of  des- 
potism, such  for  example  as  is  exerted  socially  in  England 
and  politically  in  Russia,  but  we  have  undoubtedly  devel- 
oped a larger  number  of  self-reliant  and  potentially  capa- 
ble social  units  than  even  a democratic  system  like  that  of 
France,  which  sacrifices  the  unit  to  the  organism,  succeeds 
in  producing.  We  may  truly  say  that,  material  as  we  are 
accused  of  being,  we  turn  out  more  men  than  any  other 
nationality.  And  if  some  Frenchman  points  out  that  we 
attach  an  esoteric  sense  to  the  term  “ man,”  and  that  at 
any  rate  our  men  are  not  better  adapted  than  some  others 
to  a civilized  environment  which  demands  other  qualities 
than  honesty,  energy,  and  intelligence,  ‘we  may  be  quite 
content  to  leave  him  his  objection,  and  to  prefer  what 
seems  to  us  manliness  to  civilization  itself.  At  the  same 
time  we  cannot  pretend  that  individualism  has  done  every- 
thing for  us  that  could  be  desired.  In  giving  us  the  man 
it  has  robbed  us  of  the  milieu.  Morally  speaking,  the 
milieu  with  us  scarcely  exists.  Our  difference  from  Europe 
does  not  consist  in  the  difference  between  the  European 
milieu  and  ours;  it  consists  in  the  fact  that,  comparatively 
speaking  of  course,  we  have  no  milieu.  If  we  are  individ- 
ually developed,  we  are  also  individually  isolated  to  a 
degree  elsewhere  unknown.  Politically  we  have  parties 
who,  in  Cicero’s  phrase,  “ think  the  same  things  concern- 
ing the  republic,”  but  concerning  very  little  else  are  we 
agreed  in  any  mass  of  any  moment.  The  number  of  our 
sauces  is  growing,  but  there  is  no  corresponding  diminu- 


New  York  after  Paris  303 

tion  in  the  number  of  our  religions.  We  have  no  commu- 
nities. Our  villages  even  are  apt,  rather,  to  be  aggrega- 
tions. Politics  aside,  there  is  hardly  an  American  view  of 
any  phenomenon  or  class  of  phenomena.  Every  one  of  us 
likes,  reads,  sees,  does  what  he  chooses.  Often  dissimi- 
larity is  affected  as  adding  piquancy  of  paradox.  The 
judgment  of  the  ages,  the  consensus  of  mankind,  exercise 
no  tyranny  over  the  individual  will.  Do  you  believe  in 
this  or  that,  do  you  like  this  or  that,  are  questions  which, 
concerning  the  most  fundamental  matters,  nevertheless 
form  the  staple  of  conversation  in  many  circles.  We  live 
all  of  us  apparently  in  a divine  state  of  flux.  The  ques- 
tion asked  at  dinner  by  a lady  in  a neighboring  city  of  a 
literary  stranger,  “ What  do  you  think  of  Shakespeare?” 
is  not  exaggeratedly  peculiar.  We  all  think  differently  of 
Shakespeare,  of  Cromwell,  of  Titian,  of  Browning,  of 
George  Washington.  Concerning  matters  as  to  which  we 
must  be  fundamentally  disinterested,  we  permit  ourselves 
not  only  prejudice  but  passion.  At  the  most  we  have 
here  and  there  groups  of  personal  acquaintance  only, 
whose  members  are  in  accord  in  regard  to  some  one  thing, 
and  quickly  crystallize  and  precipitate  at  the  mention  of 
something  that  is  really  a corollary  of  the  force  which 
unites  them.  The  efforts  that  have  been  made  in  New 
York,  within  the  past  twenty  years,  to  establish  various 
special  milieus , so  to  speak,  have  been  pathetic  in  their 
number  and  resultlessness.  Efforts  of  this  sort  are  of 
course  doomed  to  failure,  because  the  essential  trait  of  the 
milieu  is  spontaneous  existence,  but  their  failure  discloses 
the  mutual  repulsion  which  keeps  the  molecules  of  our 
society  from  uniting.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  when  life 
is  so  speculative,  so  experimental,  so  wholly  dependent  on 
the  personal  force  and  idiosyncrasies  of  the  individual? 
How  shall  we  accept  any  general  verdict  pronounced  by 


3°4 


French  Traits 


persons  of  no  more  authority  than  ourselves,  and  arrived 
at  by  processes  in  which  we  are  equally  expert?  We  have 
so  little  consensus  as  to  anything,  because  we  dread  the 
loss  of  personality  involved  in  submitting  to  conventions, 
and  because  personality  operates  centrifugally  alone.  We 
make  exceptions  in  favor  of  such  matters  as  the  Coperni- 
can  system  and  the  greatness  of  our  own  future.  There 
are  things  which  we  take  on  the  credit  of  the  consensus  of 
authorities,  for  which  we  may  not  have  all  the  proofs  at 
hand.  But  as  to  conventions  of  all  sorts,  our  attitude  is 
apt  to  be  one  of  suspicion  and  uncertainty.  Mark  Twain, 
for  example,  first  won  his  way  to  the  popular  American 
heart  by  exposing  the  humbugs  of  the  Cinque-cento. 
Specifically  the  most  teachable  of  people,  nervously  eager 
for  information,  Americans  are  nevertheless  wholly  dis- 
trustful of  generalizations  made  by  any  one  else,  and  little 
disposed  to  receive  blindly  formularies  and  classifications 
of  phenomena  as  to  which  they  have  had  no  experience. 
And  of  experience  we  have  necessarily  had,  except  politi- 
cally, less  than  any  civilized  people  in  the  world. 

We  are  infinitely  more  at  home  amid  universal  mobility. 
We  want  to  act,  to  exert  ourselves,  to  be,  as  we  imagine, 
nearer  to  nature.  We  have  our  tastes  in  painting  as  in 
confectionery.  Some  of  us  prefer  Tintoretto  to  Rem- 
brandt, as  we  do  chocolate  to  cocoanut.  In  respect  of 
taste  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  gloomiest  sceptic  to 
deny  that  this  is  an  exceedingly  free  country.  “ I don’t 
know  anything  about  the  subject  (whatever  the  subject 
may  be),  but  I know  what  I like,”  is  a remark  which  is 
heard  on  every  hand,  and  which  witnesses  the  sturdiness 
of  our  struggle  against  the  tyranny  of  conventions  and 
the  indomitable  nature  of  our  independent  spirit.  In  crit- 
icism the  individual  spirit  fairly  runs  a-muck;  it  takes  its 
lack  of  concurrence  as  credentials  of  impartiality  often. 


New  York  after  Paris 


305 


In  constructive  art  every  one  is  occupied  less  with  nature 
than  with  the  point  of  view.  Mr.  Howells  himself  dis- 
plays more  delight  in  his  naturalistic  attitude  than  zest  in 
his  execution,  which,  compared  with  that  of  the  French 
naturalists,  is  in  general  faint-hearted  enough.  Every  one 
writes,  paints,  models,  exclusively  the  point  of  view. 
Fidelity  in  following  out  nature’s  suggestions,  in  depict- 
ing the  emotions  nature  arouses,  a sympathetic  submission 
to  nature’s  sentiment,  absorption  into  nature’s  moods  and 
subtle  enfoldings,  are  extremely  rare.  The  artist’s  eye  is 
fixed  on  the  treatment.  He  is  “creative”  by  main 
strength.  He  is  penetrated  with  a desire  to  get  away 
from  “ the  same  old  thing,”  to  “ take  it  ” in  a new  way, 
to  draw  attention  to  himself,  to  shine.  One  would  say 
that  every  American  nowadays  who  handles  a brush  or 
designs  a building  was  stimulated  by  the  secret  ambition 
of  founding  a school.  We  have  in  art  thus,  with  a ven- 
geance, that  personal  element  which  is  indeed  its  savor, 
but  which  it  is  fatal  to  make  its  substance.  We  have  it 
still  more  conspicuously  in  life.  What  do  you  think  of 
him,  or  her?  is  the  first  question  asked  after  every  intro- 
duction. Of  every  new  individual  we  meet  we  form 
instantly  some  personal  impression.  The  criticism  of 
character  is  nearly  the  one  disinterested  activity  in  which 
we  have  become  expert.  We  have  for  this  a peculiar 
gift,  apparently,  which  we  share  with  gypsies  and  money- 
lenders, and  other  people  in  whom  the  social  instinct  is 
chiefly  latent.  Our  gossip  takes  on  the  character  of  per- 
sonal judgments  rather  than  of  tittle-tattle.  It  concerns 
not  what  So-and-So  has  done,  but  what  kind  of  a person 
So-and-So  is.  „ It  would  hardly  be  too  much  to  say  that 
So-and-So  never  leaves  a group  of  which  he  is  not  an  inti- 
mate without  being  immediately,  impartially  but  funda- 
mentally, discussed.  To  a degree  not  at  all  suspected  by 


20 


3°6 


French  Traits 


the  author  of  the  phrase,  he  “ leaves  his  character  ” with 
them  on  quitting  any  assemblage  of  his  acquaintance. 

The  great  difficulty  with  our  individuality  and  indepen- 
dence is  that  differentiation  begins  so  soon  and  stops  so  far 
short  of  real  importance.  In  no  department  of  life  has 
the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  that  principle  in 
virtue  of  whose  operation  societies  become  distinguished 
and  admirable,  had  time  to  work.  Our  social  character- 
istics are  inventions,  discoveries,  not  survival.  Nothing 
with  us  has  passed  into  the  stage  of  instinct.  And  for 
this  reason  some  of  our  “ best  people,”  some  of  the  most 
” thoughtful  ” among  us,  have  less  of  that  quality  best 
characterized  as  social  maturity  than  a Parisian  washer- 
woman or  concierge.  Centuries  of  sifting,  ages  of  gravita- 
tion toward  harmony  and  homogeneity,  have  resulted  for 
the  French  in  a delightful  immunity  from  the  necessity  of 
“ proving  all  things  ” remorselessly  laid  on  every  individ- 
ual of  our  society.  Very  many  matters,  at  any  rate,  which 
to  t he  French  are  matters  of  course,  our  self-respect 
pledges  us  to  a personal  examination  of.  The  idea  of 
sparing  ourselves  trouble  in  thinking  occurs  to  us  far 
more  rarely  than  to  other  peoples.  We  have  certainly  an 
insufficient  notion  of  the  superior  results  reached  by  econ- 
omy and  system  in  this  respect. 

In  one  of  Mr.  Henry  James’s  cleverest  sketches,  ” Lady 
Barberina,”  the  English  heroine  marries  an  American  and 
comes  to  live  in  New  York.  She  finds  it  dull.  She  is 
homesick  without  quite  knowing  why.  Mr.  James  is  at 
his  best  in  exhibiting  at  once  the  intensity  of  her  disgust 
and  the  intangibility  of  its  provocation.  We  are  not  all 
like  ” Lady  Barb.”  We  do  not  all  like  London,  whose 
materialism  is  only  more  splendid,  not  less  uncompromis- 
ing than  our  own;  but  we  cannot  help  perceiving  that 
what  that  unfortunate  lady  missed  in  New  York  was  the 


New  York  after  Paris 


307 


milieu — an  environment  sufficiently  developed  to  permit 
spontaneity  and  free  play  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  a 
certain  domination  of  shifting  merit  by  fixed  relations 
which  keeps  one’s  mind  off  that  disagreeable  subject  of 
contemplation,  one’s  self.  Every  one  seems  acutely  self- 
conscious;  and  the  self-consciousness  of  the  unit  is  fatal, 
of  course,  to  the  composure  of  the  ensemble.  The  number 
of  people  intently  minding  their  P’s  and  Q’s,  reforming 
their  orthoepy,  practising  new  discoveries  in  etiquette, 
making  over  their  names,  and  in  general  exhibiting  that 
activity  of  the  amateur  known  as  “ going  through  the 
motions  ” to  the  end  of  bringing  themselves  up,  as  it 
were,  is  very  noticeable  in  contrast  with  French  oblivion 
to  this  kind  of  personal  exertion.  Even  our  simplicity  is 
apt  to  be  simplesse.  And  the  conscientiousness  in  educat- 
ing others  displayed  by  those  who  are  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  reached  perfection  nearly  enough  to  permit  relaxa- 
tion in  self-improvement,  is  only  equalled  by  the  avidity 
in  acquisitiveness  displayed  by  the  learners  themselves. 
Meantime  the  composure  born  of  equality,  as  well  as  that 
springing  from  unconsciousness,  suffers.  Our  society  is  a 
kind  of  Jacob’s  ladder,  to  maintain  equilibrium  upon 
which  requires  an  amount  of  effort  on  the  part  of  the  per- 
sonally estimable  gymnasts  perpetually  ascending  and 
descending,  in  the  highest  degree  hostile  to  spontaneity, 
to  serenity,  and  stability. 

Naturally,  thus,  every  one  is  personally  preoccupied  to  a 
degree  unknown  in  France.  And  it  is  not  necessary  that 
this  preoccupation  should  concern  any  side  of  that  multi- 
farious monster  we  know  as  “ business.”  It  may  relate 
strictly  to  the  paradox  of  seeking  employment  for  leisure. 
Even  the  latter  is  a terribly  conscious  proceeding.  We 
go  about  it  with  a mental  deliberateness  singularly  in 
contrast  with  our  physical  precipitancy.  But  it  is  mainly 


3°8 


French  Traits 


“ business,”  perhaps,  that  accentuates  our  individualism. 
The  condition  of  desceuvrement  is  positively  disreputable. 
It  arouses  the  suspicion  of  acquaintance  and  the  anxiety 
of  friends.  Occupation  to  the  end  of  money-getting  is 
our  normal  condition,  any  variation  from  which  demands 
explanation,  as  little  likely  to  be  entirely  honorable.  Such 
occupation  is,  as  I said,  the  inevitable  sequence  of  the 
opportunity  for  it,  and  is  the  wiser  and  more  dignified 
because  of  its  necessity  to  the  end  of  securing  indepen- 
dence. What  the  Frenchman  can  secure  merely  by  the 
exercise  of  economy  is  with  us  only  the  reward  of  energy 
and  enterprise  in  acquisition — so  comparatively  specula- 
tive and  hazardous  is  the  condition  of  our  business.  And 
whereas  with  us  money  is  far  harder  to  keep,  and  is  more- 
over something  which  it  is  far  harder  to  be  without  than 
is  the  case  in  France,  the  ends  of  self-respect,  freedom 
from  mortification,  and  getting  the  most  out  of  life, 
demand  that  we  should  take  constant  advantage  of  the 
fact  that  it  is  easier  to  get.  Consequently  every  one  who 
is,  as  we  say,  worth  anything,  is  with  us  adjusted  to  the 
prodigious  dynamic  condition  which  characterizes  our 
existence.  And  such  occupation  is  tremendously  absorb- 
ing. Our  opportunity  is  fatally  handicapped  by  this 
remorseless  necessity -of  embracing  it.  It  yields  us  fruit 
after  its  kind,  but  it  rigorously  excludes  us  from  tasting 
any  other.  Every  one  is  engaged  in  preparing  the  working 
drawings  of  his  own  fortune.  There  is  no  co-operation 
possible,  because  competition  is  the  life  of  enterprise. 

In  the  resultant  manners  the  city  illustrates  Carlyle’s 
“ anarchy  plus  the  constable.”  Never  was  the  struggle 
for  existence  more  palpable,  more  naked,  and  more  unpic- 
torial. 44  It  is  the  art  of  mankind  to  polish  the  world,” 
says  Thoreau  somewhere,  44  and  every  one  who  works  is 
scrubbing  in  some  part.”  Every  one  certainly  is  here  at 


New  York  after  Paris 


3°9 


work,  yet  was  there  ever  such  scrubbing  with  so  little 
resultant  polish?  The  disproportion  would  be  tragic  if  it 
were  not  grotesque.  Amid  all  . “ the  hurry  and  rush  of 
life  along  the  sidewalks,”  as  the  newspapers  say,  one 
might  surely  expect  to  find  the  unexpected.  The  specta- 
cle ought  certainly  to  have  the  interest  of  picturesqueness 
which  is  inherent  in  the  fortuitous.  Unhappily,  though 
there  is  hurry  and  rush  enough,  it  is  the  bustle  of  busi- 
ness, not  the  dynamics  of  what  is  properly  to  be  called 
life.  The  elements  of  the  picture  lack  dignity — so  com- 
pletely as  to  leave  the  ensemble  quite  without  accent. 
More  incidents  in  the  drama  of  real  life  will  happen 
before  midnight  to  the  individuals  who  compose  the 
orderly  Boulevard  procession  in  Paris  than  those  of  its 
chaotic  Broadway  counterpart  will  experience  in  a month. 
The  latter  are  not  really  more  impressive  because  they  are 
apparently  all  running  errands  and  include  no  flaneurs. 
The  flaneur  would  fare  ill  should  anything  draw  him  into 
the  stream.  Everything  being  adjusted  to  the  motive  of 
looking  out  for  one’s  self,  any  of  the  sidewalk  civility  and 
mutual  interest  which  obtain  in  Paris  would  throw  the 
entire  machine  out  of  gear.  Whoever  is  not  in  a hurry  is 
in  the  way.  A man  running  after  an  omnibus  at  the 
Madeleine  would  come  into  collision  with  fewer  people 
and  cause  less  disturbance  than  one  who  should  stop  on 
Fourteenth  Street  to  apologize  for  an  inadvertent  jostle, 
or  to  give  a lady  any  surplusage  of  passing  room.  He 
would  be  less  ridiculous.  A friend  recently  returned  from 
Paris  told  me  that,  on  several  street  occasions,  his  invol- 
untary “ Excuse  me!”  had  been  mistaken  for  a salutation 
and  answered  by  a “ How  do  you  do?”  and  a stare  of 
speculation.  Apologies  of  this  class  sound  to  us,  perhaps, 
like  a subtle  and  deprecatory  impeachment  of  our  large 
tolerance  and  universal  good  nature. 


3io 


French  Traits 


In  this  way  our  undoubted  self-respect  undoubtedly 
loses  something  of  its  bloom.  We  may  prefer  being 
jammed  into  street-cars  and  pressed  against  the  platform 
rails  of  the  elevated  road  to  the  tedious  waiting  at  Paris 
’bus  stations — to  mention  one  of  the  perennial  and  princi- 
pal points  of  contrast  which  monopolize  the  thoughts  of 
the  average  American  sojourner  in  the  French  capital. 
But  it  is  terribly  vulgarizing.  The  contact  and  pressure 
are  abominable.  To  a Parisian  the  daily  experience  in 
this  respect  of  those  of  our  women  who  have  no  carriages 
of  their  own,  would  seem  as  singular  as  the  latter  would 
find  the  Oriental  habit  of  regarding  the  face  as  more  im- 
portant than  other  portions  of  the  female  person  to  keep 
concealed.  But  neither  men  nor  women  can  persist  in 
blushing  at  the  intimacy  of  rudeness  to  which  our  crowd- 
ing subjects  them  in  common.  The  only  resource  is  in 
blunted  sensibility.  And  the  manners  thus  negatively 
produced  we  do  not  quite  appreciate  in  their  enormity 
because  the  edge  of  our  appreciation  is  thus  necessarily 
dulled.  The  conductor  scarcely  ceases  whistling  to  poke 
you  for  your  fare.  Other  whistlers  apparently  go  on  for- 
ever. Loud  talking  follows  naturally  from  the  impossi- 
bility of  personal  seclusion  in  the  presence  of  others.  Our 
Sundays  have  lost  secular  decorum  very  much  in  propor- 
tion as  they  have  lost  Puritan  observance.  If  we  have 
nothing  quite  comparable  with  a London  bank  holiday,  or 
with  the  conduct  of  the  popular  cohorts  of  the  Epsom 
army;  if  only  in  “ political  picnics  ” and  the  excursions  of 
“ gangs  ” of  “ toughs  ” we  illustrate  absolute  barbarism, 
it  is  nevertheless  true  that,  from  Central  Park  to  Coney 
Island,  our  people  exhibit  a conception  of  the  fitting 
employment  of  periodical  leisure  which  would  seem  inde- 
corous to  a crowd  of  Belleville  ouvriers.  If  we  have  not 
the  cad,  we  certainly  possess  in  abundance  the  species 


New  York  after  Paris 


3 ii 


“ hoodlum,”  which,  though  morally  far  more  refreshing, 
is  yet  aesthetically  intolerable;  and  the  hoodlum  is  nearly 
as  rare  in  Paris  as  the  cad.  Owing  to  his  presence  and  to 
the  atmosphere  in  which  he  thrives,  we  find  ourselves,  in 
spite  of  the  most  determined  democratic  convictions,  shun- 
ning crowds  whenever  it  is  possible  to  shun  them.  The 
most  robust  of  us  easily  get  into  the  frame  of  mind  of 
a Boston  young  woman,  to  whom  the  Champs-Elysees 
looked  like  a railway  station,  and  who  wished  the  people 
would  get  up  from  the  benches  and  go  home.  Our  life 
becomes  a life  of  the  interior;  wherefore,,  in  spite  of  a 
climate  that  permits  walks  abroad,  we  confine  out-door 
existence  to  Newport  lawns  and  camps  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks;  and  whence  proceeds  that  carelessness  of  the  exte- 
rior which  subordinates  architecture  to  “ household  art,” 
and  makes  of  our  streets  such  mere  thoroughfares  lined 
with  “ homes.” 

The  manners  one  encounters  in  street  and  shop  in  Paris 
are,  it  is  well  known,  very  different  from  our  own.  But 
no  praise  of  them  ever  quite  prepares  an  American  for 
their  agreeableness  and  simplicity.  We  are  always  agree- 
ably surprised  at  the  absence  of  elaborate  manner  which 
eulogists  of  French  manners  in  general  omit  to  note;  and 
indeed  it  is  an  extremely  elusive  quality.  Nothing  is 
further  removed  from  that  intrusion  of  the  national 
gemiithlichkeit  into  so  impersonal  a matter  as  affairs,  large 
or  small,  which  to  an  occasional  sense  makes  the  occa- 
sional German  manner  enjoyable.  Nothing  is  further 
from  the  obsequiousness  of  the  London  shopman,  which 
rather  dazes  the  American  than  pleases  him.  Nothing,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  further  from  our  own  bald  despatch. 
With  us  every  shopper  expects,  or  at  any  rate  is  prepared 
for,  obstruction  rather  than  facilitation  on  the  seller’s 
side.  The  drygoods  counter,  especially  when  the  attend- 


312 


French  T ra  i ts 


ant  is  of  the  gentler  sex,  is  a kind  of  chevaux-de-frise. 
The  retail  atmosphere  is  charged  with  an  affectation  of 
unconsciousness;  not  only  is  every  transaction  imper- 
sonal, it  is  mechanical;  ere  long  it  must  become  auto- 
matic. In  many  cases  there  is  to  be  encountered  a certain 
defiant  attitude  to  the  last  degree  unhappy  in  its  effects 
on  the  manners  involved — a certain  self-assertion  which 
begs  the  question,  else  unmooted,  of  social  equality,  with 
the  result  for  the  time  being  of  the  most  unsocial  relation 
probably  existing  among  men.  Perfect  personal  equality 
for  the  time  being  invariably  exists  between  customer  and 
tradesman  in  France;  the  man  or  woman  who  serves  you 
is  first  of  all  a fellow-creature;  a shop,  to  be  sure,  is  not 
a conversazione,  but  if  you  are  in  a loquacious  or  in- 
quisitive mood  you  will  be  deemed  neither  frivolous  nor 
familiar — nor  yet  an  inanimate  obstacle  to  the  flow  of  the 
most  important  as  well  as  the  most  impetuous  of  the  cur- 
rents of  life. 

Certainly,  in  New  York,  we  are  too  vain  of  our  bustle 
to  realize  how  mannerless  and  motiveless  it  is.  The 
essence  of  life  is  movement,  but  so  is  the  essence  of  epi- 
lepsy. Moreover  the  life  of  the  New  Yorker  who  chases 
street-cars,  eats  at  a lunch  counter,  drinks  what  will  “ take 
hold  ” quickly  at  a bar  he  can  quit  instantly,  reads  only 
the  head-lines  of  his  newspaper,  keeps  abreast  of  the  intel- 
lectual movement  by  inspecting  the  display  of  the  Ele- 
vated Railway  news-stands  while  he  fumes  at  having  to 
wait  two  minutes  for  his  train,  hastily  buys  his  tardy  ticket 
of  sidewalk  speculators,  and  leaves  the  theatre  as  if  it 
were  on  fire — the  life  of  such  a man  is,  notwithstanding 
all  its  futile  activity,  varied  by  long  spaces  of  absolute 
mental  stagnation,  of  moral  coma.  Not  only  is  our  hurry 
not  decorous,  not  decent;  it  is  not  real  activity,  it  is  as 
little  as  possible  like  the  animated  existence  of  Paris, 


New  York  after  Paris 


3i3 


where  the  moral  nature  is  kept  in  constant  operation, 
intense  or  not  as  the  case  may  be,  in  spite  of  the  external 
and  material  tranquillity.  Owing  to  this  lack  of  a real,  a 
rational  activity,  our  individual  civilization,  which  seems 
when  successful  a scramble,  and  when  unlucky  a sauve  qui 
pent , is,  morally  as  well  as  spectacularly,  not  ill  described 
in  so  far  as  its  external  aspect  is  concerned  by  the  epithet 
fiat.  Enervation  seems  to  menace  those  whom  hyper- 
aesthesia  spares. 

“We  go  to  Europe  to  become  Americanized,”  says 
Emerson,  but  France  Americanizes  us  less  in  this  sense 
than  any  other  country  of  Europe,  and  perhaps  Emerson 
was  not  thinking  so  much  of  her  democratic  development 
into  social  order  and  efficiency  as  of  the  less  American  and 
more  feudal  European  influences,  which  do  indeed,  while 
we  are  subject  to  them,  intensify  our  affection  for  our 
own  institutions,  our  confidence  in  our  own  outlook.  One 
must  admit  that  in  France,  which  nowadays  follows  our 
ideal  of  liberty  perhaps  as  closely  as  we  do  hers  of  equal- 
ity and  fraternity,  and  where  consequently  our  political 
notions  receive  few  shocks,  not  only  is  the  life  of  the 
senses  more  agreeable  than  it  is  with  us,  but  the  mutual 
relations  of  men  are  more  felicitous  also.  And  alas! 
Americans  who  have  savored  these  sweets  cannot  avail 
themselves  of  the  implication  contained  in  Emerson’s 
further  words — words  which  approach  nearer  to  petulance 
than  anything  in  his  urbane  and  placid  utterances — 
“ those  who  prefer  London  or  Paris  to  America  may  be 
spared  to  return  to  those  capitals.”  “ II  faut  vivre,  com- 
battre,  et  finir  avec  les  siens,”  says  Doudan,  and  no  law 
is  more  inexorable.  The  fruits  of  foreign  gardens  are, 
however  delectable,  enchanted  for  us;  we  may  not  touch 
them;  and  to  pass  our  lives  in  covetous  inspection  of 


3i4 


French  Traits 


them  is  as  barren  a performance  as  may  be  imagined. 
For  this  reason  the  question  “ Would  you  like  better  to 
live  here  or  abroad?”  is  as  little  practical  as  it  is  fre- 
quent. The  empty  life  of  the  ‘‘foreign  colonies”  in 
Paris  is  its  sufficient  answer.  Not  only  do  most  of  us 
have  to  stay  at  home,  but  for  every  one  except  the  incon- 
siderable few  who  can  better  do  abroad  the  work  they 
have  to  do,  and  except  those  essentially  un-American 
waifs  who  can  contrive  no  work  for  themselves,  life 
abroad  is  not  only  less  profitable  but  less  pleasant.  The 
American  endeavoring  to  acclimatize  himself  in  Paris 
hardly  needs  to  have  cited  to  him  the  words  of  Epictetus: 
“ Man,  thou  hast  forgotten  thine  object;  thy  journey  was 
not  to  this,  but  through  this” — he  is  sure  before  long  to 
come  dismally  persuaded  of  their  truth.  More  speedily 
than  elsewhere,  perhaps,  he  finds  out  in  Paris  the  truth  of 
Carlyle’s  assurance:  ” It  is,  after  all,  the  one  unhappiness 
of  a man.  That  he  cannot  work;  that  he  cannot  get  his 
destiny  as  a man  fulfilled.”  For  the  work  which  insures 
the  felicity  of  the  French  life  of  the  senses  and  of  French 
human  relations  he  cannot  share;  and,  thus,  the  question 
of  the  relative  attractiveness  of  French  and  American  life 
— of  Paris  and  New  York — becomes  the  idle  and  purely 
speculative  question  as  to  whether  one  would  like  to 
change  his  personal  and  national  identity. 

And  this  an  American  may  permit  himself  the  chauvin- 
ism of  believing  a less  rational  contradiction  of  instinct  in 
himself  than  it  would  be  in  the  case  of  any  one  else.  And 
for  this  reason:  that  in  those  elements  of  life  which  tend 
to  the  development  and  perfection  of  the  individual  soul 
in  the  work  of  fulfilling  its  mysterious  destiny,  American 
character  and  American  conditions  are  especially  rich. 
Bunyan’s  genius  exhibits  its  characteristic  felicity  in  giv- 
ing the  name  of  Hopeful  to  the  successor  of  that  Faithful 


New  York  after  Paris 


3i5 


who  perished  in  the  town  of  Vanity.  It  would  be  a mark 
of  that  loose  complacency  in  which  we  are  too  often 
offenders,  to  associate  the  scene  of  Faithful’s  martyrdom 
with  the  Europe  from  which  definitively  we  set  out  afresh 
a century  ago;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  recognize  that 
on  our  forward  journey  to  the  celestial  country  of  national 
and  individual  success,  our  conspicuous  inspiration  and 
constant  comforter  is  that  hope  whose  cheering  ministra- 
tions the  “ weary  Titans  ” of  Europe  enjoy  in  far  nar- 
rower measure.  Living  in  the  future  has  an  indisputably 
tonic  effect  upon  the  moral  sinews,  and  contributes  an 
exhilaration  to  the  spirit  which  no  sense  of  attainment  and 
achieved  success  can  give.  We  are  after  all  the  true 
idealists  of  the  world.  Material  as  are  the  details  of  our 
preoccupation,  our  sub-consciousness  is  sustained  by  a 
general  aspiration  that  is  none  the  less  heroic  for  being, 
perhaps,  somewhat  naif  as  well.  The  times  and  moods 
when  one’s  energy  is  excited,  when  something  occurs  in 
the  continuous  drama  of  life  to  bring  sharply  into  relief 
its  vivid  interest  and  one’s  own  intimate  share  therein, 
when  nature  seems  infinitely  more  real  than  the  societies 
she  includes,  when  the  missionary,  the  pioneer,  the  con- 
structive spirit  is  aroused,  are  far  more  frequent  with  us 
than  with  other  peoples.  Our  intense  individualism  hap- 
pily modified  by  our  equality,  our  constant,  active,  multi- 
form struggle  with  the  environment,  do  at  least,  as  I said, 
produce  men  ; and  if  we  use  the  term  in  an  esoteric  sense 
we  at  least  know  its  significance.  Of  our  riches  in  this 
respect  New  York  alone  certainly  gives  no  exaggerated 
idea — however  it  may  otherwise  epitomize  and  typify  our 
national  traits.  A walk  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue;  a drive 
among  the  “ homes”  of  Buffalo  or  Detroit — or  a dozen 
other  true  centres  of  communal  life  which  have  a concrete 
impressiveness  that  for  the  most  part  only  great  capitals 


3l6 


French  Traits 


in  Europe  possess;  a tour  of  college  commencements  in 
scores  of  spots  consecrated  to  the  exaltation  of  the  per- 
manent over  the  evanescent;  contact  in  any  wise  with  the 
prodigious  amount  of  right  feeling  manifested  in  a hun- 
dred ways  throughout  a country  whose  prosperity  stimu- 
lates generous  impulse,  or  with  the  number  of  “ good 
fellows”  of  large,  shrewd,  humorous  views  of  life,  critical 
perhaps  rather  than  constructive,  but  at  all  events  un- 
touched by  cynicism,  perfectly  competent  and  admirably 
confident,  with  a livelier  interest  in  everything  within  their 
range  of  vision  than  can  be  felt  by  any  one  mainly  occu- 
pied with  sensuous  satisfaction,  saved  from  boredom  by 
a robust  imperviousness,  ready  to  begin  life  over  again 
after  every  reverse  with  unenfeebled  spirit,  and  finding, 
in  the  working  out  of  their  own  personal  salvation  accord- 
ing to  the  gospel  of  necessity  and  opportunity,  that  joy 
which  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  misses — experiences  of  every 
kind,  in  fine,  that  familiarize  us  with  what  is  especially 
American  in  our  civilization,  are  agreeable  as  no  foreign 
experiences  can  be,  because  they  are  above  all  others  ani- 
mating and  sustaining.  Life  in  America  has  for  every  one, 
in  proportion  to  his  seriousness,  the  zest  that  accompanies 
the  ” advance  on  Chaos  and  the  Dark.”  Meantime,  one’s 
last  word  about  the  America  emphasized  by  contrast  with 
the  organic  and  solidaire  society  of  France,  is  that,  for 
insuring  order  and  efficiency  to  the  lines  of  this  advance, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  too  gravely  the  utility  of 
observing  attentively  the  work  in  the  modern  world  of  the 
only  other  great  nation  that  follows  the  democratic  stan- 
dard, and  is  perennially  prepared  to  make  sacrifices  for 
ideas. 


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